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Welcome to Our Wave.

This is a space where survivors of trauma and abuse share their stories alongside supportive allies. These stories remind us that hope exists even in dark times. You are never alone in your experience. Healing is possible for everyone.

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Story
From a survivor
🇨🇦

Surviving Gang Rape

Last year I was gang raped. I have an ear ringing called tinnitus that has not stopped since. I have nightmares. I flew with my mom to a wedding overseas. I was excited. She would be busy with her friends and cousin and I would get to spend time with my awesome second cousin who is two years older than me. After the rehearsal dinner we went out. It was fun because I was not legally able to drink there even though the age was lower than in my province, but they did not check ID’s. I did not drink much because it was not my thing and I had a boyfriend but I was able to go to some bars then a club attached to a hotel. So much fun up to when we met two soldiers in uniform who were cute and separated us from her friends because of our looks. My cousin is stunning beautiful. They had a private room at the club and several soldiers were there and two prostitutes also. Those prostitutes definitely hated us being there. I wanted to get out anyway and the cute ones that invited us acted like they understood and took us out of there. We stupidly let them take us to their hotel room where they totally dropped the cute romantic act and made us strip our clothes to music. They showed us a gun they had in a drawer. I was terrified. They made us lay on our stomachs bent over the bed side by side and had sex with us that way. They switched like we were interchangeable before finishing in us with no protection. We held hands. I was crying while my cousin was trying to be strong and cheer me up. We weren’t allowed to leave and our clothes were hidden. Before took our phones we had to text that we were staying at my cousin’s friend’s house. Then they called two other soldiers, one of them a huge tall dark guy with body builder muscles. He was the worst to me. They made us dance and then we had to use our mouths on the cute ones that had lured us there while the other two had sex with us. I vomited and my cousin cleaned it up but then it started again. They had cocaine and made us sniff it off their parts and sniffed it off us. Another one came and I think it was just those five during the night but they kept raping us and making us do things even when we would pass out. I would like to have been more unconscious but cocaine makes you so awake. I want to remember less and think about it all less. We showered many times. The big dark one peed on me and in my mouth the shower. He did it more than once like I was his toilet. The other men even had to tell him to chill out when he was making me scream liking his fingers and pushing them in my arse, but not when he made me crawl around like a dog using my hair as a leash. I remember one of them calling their friends to tell them to turn all their t.v.’s way up to hide the noise in our room. They watched sports news on the t.v. They had me and my cousin kiss each other and stuff. I could not act like it was a fun party like my cousin did sometimes and encouraged me to do. She tried to take some of their attention away from me over and over. I love her for it but they did not leave me alone. My chest is something they were obsessed with. They did not care that I was obviously distressed and freaking out or that in my country I was three years below the age of consent. There I was the minimum. We woke up in the morning on one the beds together with only the two soldiers sleeping on the floor. The black one was gone! They had sex with us again and another man who was much older and who they called SIR came in and had sex with both us but mostly me. They cheered him on and my head was pounding and I was crying and it seemed to last forever. Finally we got our clothes back but they took us for brunch wearing their normal clothes. They showed me pictures on their phones that made it look like I was having fun and warned us how bad it would be if we said anything different than we had a nice party. A nice party in hell! Before that I’d had sex with only my 1 boyfriend ever. One night of hell and now my number was seven!! We had to start getting ready for the wedding right away and I was exhausted. My cousin hid me and I took a nap in my dress, hair and makeup until the last minute. I cried in the ceremony but not for the wedding. I was so sore in my vagina, muscles, and brain that I got so drunk at the reception I barely remember any of it. Just part of being on the plane home. I told my mom the truth when I got back and she got all crazy, so did my dad, and they tried to call over there and the hotel and such but there was nothing the police would do. I saw my dad cry for the first time as I told the whole story. My boyfriend could not handle it and dumped me. I go to group and do therapy. I take a pill everyday and now benzo’s for break through anxiety. I try to hide my large chest under baggy clothes where before I used it for attention. STUPID! My cousin does not seem to have the trauma I do or the nightmares. In her country they are done with secondary school up to two years before us and are more treated like adults sooner. I said mean things to her once because of it. She forgave me but we talk much less since I asked if she has gang bangs all the time. I felt terrible because she even let them have anal sex with her to lure them away from me. I could tell it hurt her so much but at the time was just thinking about my own survival. My childhood is OVER but I do not feel like an adult. Her advice is -Don’t let it get you so down-. Like I have a choice in this!! She went to a therapist ONCE because her mom made the appointment and does not plan to go back. Her life did not really change!! She works reception at a tech company and models on the side and still goes to parties and clubs and dates. How??? It is unbelievable how attitudes toward something like this can be so different in different countries. I am a victim now and I usually feel like it. Definitely damaged. Everybody at my school knows why. I am THAT girl. My new more mature boyfriend is understanding but I feel like a sad little burden to him. I am hypersexual sometimes now and can’t help it. It is a coping mechanism that happens to some victims of sexual assault. I did not ask for it. I worry my boyfriend can’t trust me because of it. I had an older guy friend who’s been my neighbor for years take advantage of me after I told him the story of what happened at his house. We had sex and then he felt guilty for being turned on by my rape story. He admitted it and asked me to forgive him. The sex helped me calm the ear ringing for just short time periods so I did it with him more than once a day for a bit until my dad started to suspect something and talked to him. Since then I don’t trust myself. I want to marry my boyfriend in large part just to protect myself and show him I love him and am loyal even though I am not sure I can be. I worry I cannot love like a normal person. I worry I push him away being too needy and wanting to marry him so soon. I need him more than he needs me. Is that the way it will always be in relationships for rape victims??? I work hard at school not to ruin my future. It is so hard to focus. My ears ring constantly. Thank you for listening.

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  • Story
    From a survivor
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    Because we were married…

    I’m sharing here because I hope I can reach out to other women who may have gone through marital rape or may still be going through it and I want you to know you are not alone. For years I felt as if I was asleep as I couldn’t face up to what was happening to me, why I was losing weight and why I so depressed. I minimised everything, even to him. I would try and make him feel better afterwards. Most of the time it was as simple as me saying no to sex and him doing it anyway while I was completely disconnected, and it was so often, I would lie there and wait til he was done most of the time, but each thing built up to him pushing the boundaries further, sometimes when we were out in public, always after I went out with my friends, it was part of the deal. I always told myself he’d be in better form if I just went along with it. He was always so stressed and so angry. And I loved him and sometimes I enjoyed sex with him. It made things very confusing in my head. And I was eating barely anything, which he encouraged, he was constantly buying me exercise equipment and sexy outfits. I kept getting sick, I was tired and low all the time. My family and friends were saying I wasn’t myself. There were 3 incidents that I play over and over in my head that I couldn’t minimise (although I tried). And they led to me telling him our marriage was over. That was a year ago. I thought it might help me to write one of them down and maybe someone will identify with me and it might help them. It was at his best friends wedding and as usual, he wanted us to do something exciting sexually. So we went to the men’s toilets. We were kissing and we started to have sex. I was quite drunk. All of a sudden he turned me around and bent me over the toilet, my hands on the window sill. I started to say no. It came out in what sounded like a little girls voice. I don’t know why I remember that so well. I don’t know why I didn’t shout. He raped me anally in the men’s cubicle and I was crying looking at a dirty window sill and I could hear strange men outside commenting. Afterwards I kept asking why did you do that, I didn’t want that, it hurt me, you were too rough, I said no. But he he didn’t want to talk about it. He left me sitting with one of his male friends that I didn’t know to go outside with his best friend and have cigars. He saw I was in pain and bleeding for days after. I stayed with him for years after that. Other things happened after that too. I ended up feeling like his stress ball, a rag doll, good for nothing else. I was with him since I was 18 years old and we have children together. He was all I knew. He was my husband and I loved him. No one knew what was happening. Everyone thought we were a couple in love. It wasn’t until I told him I couldn’t share a bed with him anymore and I was starting ti have panic attacks that we went to a marriage counsellor and it all came out. I woke up. It was her face. Her reaction. I felt so stupid and embarrassed. And he tried to explain it away to her shouting at her that he was a man. I was sitting there thinking how did I let this happen to me? I always saw myself as quite a strong, intelligent, bubbly person. I’m in my 40s, I should know better. I was looking at the counsellors face and it somehow didn’t feel as if it was happening. I realised I was shaking and she was worried about me and he was shouting at her. I felt so embarrassed and helpless. And stupid in front of another grown woman. I was thinking what if this was someone I loved telling me this happened to them? But still in my head I kept thinking its not really rape because he was my husband, and I loved him and so many times I wanted to have sex with him so how could it be rape. But why did he want to hurt me? I kept thinking this couldn’t be happening to me. Anyway thanks for reading. I hope it helps someone. I feel it helped me to write it down.

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  • “Healing means forgiving myself for all the things I may have gotten wrong in the moment.”

    Story
    From a survivor
    🇮🇪

    My Dad - My Hero, My Idol, My Abuser.......

    As an only child, I had no one to look up to really as a kid. But I always looked up to my Dad. Even though he was never really around due to work (although Mam worked more than he did and still found lots of time to spend with me), I still idolised him. He was my hero. He would always say 'Dads know everything - remember that', so lying to my dad (even little white lies) were pointless. Though when I hit 13 I began to realise he actually DID know everything. He knew what myself and my friends would talk about, he would know exactly where I was and who I was with without even needing to ask me, and I would always wonder why. In reality he had my phone tracked and could read all my messages. Now that I have been through the court system and he has been imprisoned for the abuse he inflicted upon me, I can confirm that he was in fact grooming me from the age of 13. About a month after my 18th Birthday, began the horrific 7.5 year abuse that I suffered. My Dad, masked for the first 2 years as a stranger, blackmailed me into performing sexual acts with strange men in our home - the one place I should've felt safe. When I finally realised it was him, I couldn't tell you how it then turned into just open ended abuse and rape from him. He would advertise us as a couple on hook up sites and in order to avoid physical beatings I would go along with it. I feared for my life so much that endless rapes and sexual assaults were easier - imagine that being the easiest choice - until you're in it, you just don't know how you'll react. I stopped going out, I gave up my hobbies, whilst in college I gave up my part time job - he controlled every single part of my life. And if I even let my "everything is rosey' mask slip even for a second, especially in front of my Mam, well it just doesn't bear thinking about. Fortunately for me, once Mam did find out, he was gone out of my life within 30 mins. Unfortunately, he went on to groom and abuse others after that. He was convicted, and is currently serving his prison sentence - but the fear of him stilll remains.

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    From a survivor
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    The body remembers

    The body remembers trauma. I didn’t know this until I experienced it myself. After a fun and rambunctious night with my husband (now ex) I woke up the next morning feeling particularly sore. As I sat on the toilet I realized that this soreness was something I had felt before. I then had a flashback from my sophomore year in college. When I woke up groggy after a night of partying with my soccer teammates. I headed to the bathroom. As I peed I felt that sore and ache-y feeling. I didn’t know what it was and wrote it off as cramps and hangover. I remember looking in the mirror and seeing that I wasn’t wearing my pajamas. Just a random top and shorts. When I got back to my dorm room my then boyfriend was just waking up. And that was the end of my flashback. I then realized my sexual history was a lie. I thought I had lost my virginity to my husband and he was my first and only partner. But this changed everything. I lost my virginity to my boyfriend who raped me and I had no idea. My sexual narrative and my identity changed in my late 30's because of this revelation. Who am I? What does this mean? Bits and pieces from the night returned. I know we drank a lot. I know he walked me home. Thats all I can remember because I blacked out. Is it better that I blacked out? That I cant remember the horrible thing done to me? I don't know. I just feel a bit lost and scared for the 19 year old me who was young and naive. She didn't know what to do. Now in my early 40's divorced and a single parent I'm healing the wounds that were invisible and hiding for so long. Im listening to my body now. And I'm going to nourish it.

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  • “It’s always okay to reach out for help”

    Story
    From a survivor
    🇺🇸

    It Started with my Brother

    I was used by my brother who has grown up a lot but I still carry scars. My brother is four years older than me and when I was going from elementary school to Junior high, that summer, he made me think that girls in junior high need to know how to give oral to boys. First he did oral to me to show me it was not a big deal. I thought it was a huge deal. But I did it and he got me trained and had me keep it a secret, except from by best friend. He had his friend over when I had a sleepover one night and had her do it to his friend. Then they would have us do contests where they wear blindfolds. At least I was not alone then. It changed me even though seventh grade itself had nothing to do with anything like that. It was a lie to get pleasure from me. My brother still had me doing it at home. And sometimes he would do it to me and I did climax. So I had this weird secret sex life and felt really messed up about it. Then in eight grade I had my first real boyfriend. My parents are so strict, even though they both worked and left me alone with my brother. To go to the movies with my boyfriend they made sure it was with a group and took me there and waited outside the theater. Well one time when we went to see Snow White and the Huntsman my same BFF and me went through with our plan to go down on our guys in the last row of the theater and we did it. It was only a month later I started having sex with him which never would have happened if not for what my brother had done. We snuck out from her place during a sleepover and met the boys outside and went to the nearby park and did it in the grass. That was my virginity. The really bad event, where my life got knocked off the tracks, is when we tried it from my house, sneaking out the window and going just out farther into my big back yard that opened into nothing but the side of a big hill and my dad caught us. It was awful. The world ended. I was treated like a huge betrayer and almost all my privileges were revoked and essentially I was grounded without any end date. And still by brother would make me do the oral. I was broken hearted because I was not allowed to have my boyfriend to the point my parents made me go to the school and talk to the principal and vice principal and they made sure I would not have any chance to ever see him alone. And my brother kept creeping in at night sometimes or when we were left alone expecting me to do what he had trained me to be used to. The next really bad part was two months into my new restricted life. My brother started doing his oral on me one afternoon after school and decided to take it farther and got up and started kissing me and had sex with me. I was in the moment and did not do anything to stop him and even participated. No condom. It was an afternoon when my parents were away and so we did not have to keep quiet or worry and he did it so much longer than my few times with my boyfriend, because he was older and knew more from being with other girls that I got sore for my first time and got a urine infection. I did not eat my dinner that night and pretended to be sick and cried myself to sleep. My brother really wanted to do it again, telling me it was the best sex he ever had, but I refused and one thing I could say for him back then was at least he was not a rapist. Even though he pressured me he never tried to force himself inside me. Four months after I had lost my incest virginity the school year ended and he graduated. I went to high school and he moved out to live in college dorms 120 miles from our home town. Public school was over for me, as was planned as soon as my dad caught me on the hill. I went to an all girl’s Catholic high school. My dad had to drive me a half hour every morning and my mom picked me up from my whole first year. Then they got me a car so I could drive myself but the mileage and my times were closely monitored. I did not have an intercourse throughout high school but seven times total I did oral on my brother during summer and winter breaks when we were both at home. That was the end of incest in my life. I went to college in Atlanta but not the same one as my brother. I rebelled against my parents and even though they tried to keep control, as a legal adult I did not let them. Turmoil and sadness lasted months until they finally got it. I separated from them financial and worked and took out student loans. I was very promiscuous in college. I drank, partied and used drugs recreationally and had several guys I was seeing on and off for mostly sex. That was my life and I thought I enjoyed it at the time. I became stronger and more assertive and when my brother first hinted during a Thanksgiving meeting at our relative’s house that we go for a drive I told him I never wanted to touch him again in such a powerful way that he knew I was off limits and even seemed like the scared one in our relationship. I didn’t enroll in classes for two nonconsecutive semester just because my party life was so much more fun. I traveled on and off. Sometimes with friends, sometimes with men, usually older, who invited me to exotic places. The Maldives, Portugal, The Virgin Islands. I let my married boss use me for a weekend in Key West. I had an affair with my Spanish teacher, who only took me as far as Panama City, Florida. So many risky one night stands. My identity was that I was not looking for anything permanent, a child of the universe. While I was used as a plaything so many times and believed I liked the game. I would tell them things about wanting to make their dick happy and stuff that would inflate their ego. I’m sure there are so many text messages out there that they saved about the size of their D fitting in my little P, about being a little girl wanting them to teach me to be woman and other depraved fantasies I thought they wanted to hear. Obviously directly related to what my brother did to me. I am almost positive I avoided being raped more than once by going with the flow when I did not expect to or probably want to. It may be good that some of them I probably don’t remember. Once was at one of the few fraternity parties I ever went to. It was three guys, not my usual style. Once was with my roommate's father who was visiting her at our rented house and found his way to my bed in the early morning. One of the more extreme traumatic events was with a police officer who pulled me over for driving when I had been drinking but was under the legal limit on his breathalyzer. He followed me home, like a mile away, “for my safety” and even followed me inside. I was in an apartment then and I thought my roomate was home and told him so. But when she wasn’t there he said I lied to a police officer and he had to do a more thorough search if I wanted to avoid being arrested. He was not attractive or nice. He had a gun thought he never took it out. You can guess what happened. I finally shed that wild life during my second to last semester when I saw the end of college coming. My G.P.A was 3.3. and my major was philosophy and it dawned on me that the future was not bright in terms of what I would do or how I would pay back my loans. I buckled down and decided to change. I had an offer to strip and ‘make a lot of money’ but thankfully not only did never considered myself like that, but when I went with a friend for her interview and they tried to recruit me they were so sleazy we both ran out of there disgusted. I reevaluated my whole life. I considered ending it, but some survival mechanism did not allow it. I did not want to be the person I had been for a few years. I looked ahead and saw it was not sustainable as I aged and had no real love or stability. I quit serving when I got an offer to work in a legal office. I slept with the manager who hired me as a receptionist but it was a drop in the bucket of things to be shameful of. He was the last one like that. I got all A’s and graduated cum laude. I got promoted in the firm mostly by title but used it to spring away and take a lower paying job in a nonprofit law firm where I had not slept with anyone. There I did sleep with a lawyer but I am married to him still and my life is back together. I love him and he loves me. He does not know the extent of my sluttiness in college or about my brother and I doubt he ever will. That darkness is fading and it is not part of my life now. It is not who I am. As for my brother, he has a family now and we are on good terms. We did talk about it once while I was studying like crazy my senior year, although it was not a big deep talk. I did mention that he used me, he apologized, we hugged, and that was it. Not the cathartic confrontation some might expect. My catharsis is my husband, and my life now that I am grateful for. We adopted two toddler brothers and I am their mom. Maybe we’ll have one of our own. Maybe we’ll adopt again. I was used and introduced to sex too young and early and it strained my relationship with my parents for a long time and I’ll never get that back. It derailed my life. I was set adrift for a while but God or the universe or random luck finally put me in a good place. Everything that happened led me what I have now. I can’t say I never contemplated suicide in darker times. But like in the move Cast Away, if I may quote, “I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail. And now, here I am.” Thousands of hours spent studying philosophy and I quote a movie that was not even based on a book. But it’s perfect.

    Dear reader, this story contains language of self-harm that some may find triggering or discomforting.

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  • Story
    From a survivor
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    #11

    I tried to kiss my girlfriend at the end of our second date, and something was wrong. She flinched. She moved. No, she backed away. Then later, she told me about how she had been attacked by a man two years ago and hadn’t been intimate with anyone since. So what now. She went through something I would never understand. I do not understand. How can you go inside her, feel that level of connection, and want her—knowing she was tied down against her will, and tortured for hours with foreign objects, starting and finishing with physical abuse. She will not say out-loud the source. But I now know she still carries scars on her skin and damage to her internal organs. With bravery I will never understand. The power of her story was second only to the power of her choosing to share that story with me. Since that day I have tried to make good on that trust and make her feel safe and enrich her life, however I am able. It does not come close to the insight she has given me. Now, my partner continues to show signs of the trauma almost every day- Yet it is not even close to the first thing that comes to mind when I think of her. She is one of the gentlest and most thoughtful woman I have been lucky enough to meet. Sometimes her teacher voice comes out, when I have misunderstood her directions or done something wrong—and honestly I don’t mind it in the slightest, because I truly consider this confidence an extension of her desire to resolve conflict through positive emotions. This is no damn small feat, considering what she’s been through. I sometimes think about the man that attacked her. I hate him. I do not know his name or what he looks like. And I am not sure what I’d do if I did. But ultimately it’s not for me to decide. She has forgiven him and so must I. She is kinder and more patient than this world deserves. I am proud to know her and proud to love her.

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    From a survivor
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    Just words. Dirty Words

    Just words. You have trouble talking about these things. You realize you have trouble talking about a lot of things. You remember being excited about your first job at Company Name. One of your friends works there and you know a lot of people work there as a summer job. It’s the 1990’s and it’s been grandfathered in that they can pay you less than minimum wage because it’s like a part time training experience for students getting their first work experience. Like a newspaper route. Those are for boys. You got so excited after being nervous you asked for an application along with your friend. You don’t remember meeting him then. So many people want to get chosen for that crap job because for some reason it’s become a sought after thing among the cool kids. You do remember the phone call that you can come for an interview. Walking home you wonder if being cute and having larger breasts than most almost freshman girls had something to do with it. You met Name and remember him for sure this time. The way you look has been a curse far more than a blessing. One reason people would not feel that bad for you. 'God sure blessed you, honey." You have so many bad memories, blocked memories, repressed memories because of Name. You are having second thoughts as tears build up. You need a drink. You quit drinking years ago and today you have three months and eight days sober. Your record is nine months and two days. You are strong. Most of the time. You are hollow. All the time. Name wasn’t the last but he was the first. You change his name although you don’t want to. He is the symbol of your hatred of all that is wrong with men. You were tricked. Name got what he wanted from you. Too many times. Too many times before you stopped going back. Just stopped. You could have just stopped after the first time he held you close and caressed you before your mom picked you up that night. The first time. You still don’t understand or forgive yourself for that. You had let a boy at a party and a boy at an 8th grade dance put their hand up your shirt. You had liked it so much those times. It had been exciting and happy. Name did not make you happy. You went back. You want to talk about something else now. Not the other men who thought your body was their plaything. Not the time you went to Ireland with your Aunts and mom. You miss mom. That was a good trip. You got back to that a lot. You sat down to talk about things you don’t talk about. On a family trip to Adventureland you asked your cousin if was considered losing your virginity of a boy did it to your boobs. You pretended it was a cute boy, not Name. It was hard to breathe with him sitting on your torso thrusting. You sometimes break things and scream. Never when your son is around. You have two jobs and don’t really like the one that pays the most. Your college degree does not count much. How much life is wasted on despair and doubt and taking the wrong path? You feel relief when he finally finished. You hate when he finishes because you know he is stealing his ultimate pleasure from you when he has a wife. He acts like it was just another day at work to keep you on his leash. You are pathetic. His remnants are inside you every time you go home after closing with him. Just another miserable day in the life. You say nothing. You tell no one. You are worthless except as a vessel for him. Your parents say nice things to you, about you. They always have. They have to. They don’t know what you really are. A black shame is the times you felt pleasure in your body while he was doing it do you. At least while you remained quiet and motionless there was some dignity. Defiance. Insult to him. When your body and voice reacted like you liked it it was a betrayal. Like you liked that tub of disgusting man on top of you and inside of you, fucking you on that tile floor, kissing you like a lover. You befriended a group of guys by mid high school. Over a year after Name was more than thorn in your soul. A deep callous. The group figured out what you were. They played football. They were important and had strong will. They shared you and passed you around. They told you they loved you. That you were the coolest girl. They took what they wanted when they wanted. Why? Name 2 was you lab partner for biology. He was the first. He was the only one your age. You went in his car for lunch and met some others. They wanted you. You volunteered. It is all you are good for. Draining them of their juice so they can be happy and feel like men. So you can feel empty and dirty. Even after they graduated they got together for group fun, or had you sneak out at night to go for a ride. You headed far west after you graduated. A fresh start. An exodus. An escape. You went to one reunion. The ten year reunion. Name 2 came with his wife. He introduced you as his ex-girlfriend. You let hm take you to the disabled restroom and have his quickie. You went to the bars afterward and ditched your real friend and let Name 3 take you back to his hotel room to live his fantasies just because he claimed that he always loved you. They say attractive people have sex more frequently with more partners than normal people. The darkness behind that statement is that for females it is no always because they want it that way but because of the relentless pressure from men and how they will do anything if they get the opportunity. You are not a nice innocent girl. Would you have been if it had not been for Name like you want to think? Would you have let your much older cousin you barely know take you back into the woods with him behind their house to the shack where he smokes pot after a wedding. Then wait there for him to call his friends after he found out you were a bad girl and wait for them too. Swatting flies in your underwear while you waited for them. You did not drink because your mom did not allow it even though kids younger than you were. But your cousin and his local friends did. Four of them counting your cousin old enough to be your uncle. Still, you acted like you liked everything they did. They took it so far like you were the world's greatest toy. Porn star, they called you like it was the best thing you could be. The anal was excruciating. It was easier to just wash off all your makeup than to try to fix it after all the sweat and sticky. Smiles and complements followed by the deep hollow feeling of total isolation in the station wagon on the way back home from Kansas city. Hating Name and feeling like you betrayed your aunt because one of them was her fiancé. You got an infection and it was embarrassing when the doctor told you. At least it was a female doctor. The idea of a male gynecologist is unnerving. The one time you were examined by one was terrifying. You were in college. He was way too thorough and talkative like he was working up to asking you out on a date and you decided never again. The only one you ever had that did not wear gloves for the breast exam. The most sensual digital vaginal exam you ever had to check the cervix and ovaries for pain. Was his thumb supposed to be brushing your clitoris? You even wonder if he was recording it on his phone that you saw him adjust twice as it was peaking out of the breast pocket of his lab coat. His stupid November mustache he asked you if you liked. So some days you don’t eat. You exercise to maintain the body they want. It gives you value to them. You are nothing. People always say nice things. Hollow things. What if you had never met Name? What if you never got fucked on the floor for $3.45 an hour. On your back, on your hands and knees, sometimes even on top of him. Your first orgasm on that floor that smelled like stale milk and bleach. Having to tell your mom pick you up 45 minutes after the place closes for your cleaning duties. You used tampons just to keep from his semen leaking out on the way home. You pretended to be a virgin when you were far from it. He told you not to worry because he had a vasectomy. That part must have been true. You don't got on dates even though they always try to set you up. Not a chance. Your son is a good excuse. And a real reason. Real love. The Earth spins in space. Why can’t it just freeze and die like me? Your boss doesn’t go all the way with you because he won’t cheat on his wife. You give him oral because he doesn’t think that counts. Preserves his purity. He says he wants to so badly, like he can take whatever he wants from you but he is strong and valiant. You are nothing. He is handsome. You let him kiss you and fondle you. You long for his touch. He is not a great man but you long for him. The closest thing to a good man you have known. A father figure. Your son needs a father figure. He is everything. He deserves better. He loves you. He tells you are a good mom and that is worth enduring the world for as long as it takes. You put on a good face but he knows you are hollow, deep down. A wounded duck pretending to be a swan. Always pretending. Was there no pretending before Name? Maybe not. The days begin and your mind pretends and it is hard and the days end. Bad dreams on both ends. Will he be a good man? The funny thing is you want him to be a prince because he is your prince but even if he is like most men you want his total happiness. You want beautiful girls, good times, and strong friends for him. You exist to fake it and to have let those men enjoy you but mostly to give your son the best life possible beyond you. You are not worthless. It is not your fault. You are stronger than you know. Hollow words. They have to say it. They always have. No creativity. No insight. No truth. Just words.

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  • Every step forward, no matter how small, is still a step forwards. Take all the time you need taking those steps.

    Story
    From a survivor
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    the story I'm finally strong enough to write.

    sorry that this is super long😭😭😭 when I was younger I was best friends with this girl we met on the first day of kindergarten and were inseparable and when we were 7 she started touching me on the school bus and I told the school and instead of helping they put me and her in the school counselor's office and she showed us a video of keeping our hands to ourselves and not letting other people touch out bodies 3 weeks she raped me in her bedroom and I didn't know what to do so I just laid there and didn't speak I think it made it worse that she is a girl and its not typical for females to rape other females so I felt as no one would believe me so I stayed quiet because of what happened the first time after that stuff kept happening but then I got into the 5th grade and we didn't see each other because it was there first real year of COVID so it was all basically online and we were in different classes but then 6th grade started and I was back to seeing her every day and that was super hard and she started to do that stuff and it was really bad on my mental health then she decided to punch me in the face for no reason so I stopped talking to her I ended up admitting myself to a psych ward where I did end up getting help and was doing better and I went to my ex friends play performance and this friend was friends with the girl at the time and I still wanted to be his friend so I because friends with her again and told her that I stopped talking to her because my best friend told me to that night she raped me in my own bedroom after I let her borrow my clothes my shows by hairbrush my everything and she still decided to rape me and that hurt and again like the first time I sat there doing and saying nothing for some reason I couldn't no matter what no matter what I thought no matter what I said nothing I was frozen I always everyone talk about fight or flight and no one ever talks about freeze even tho its one of the most common ones every time she did something like that I would freeze I wouldn't talk I would barely move I just laid there helpless like God was gonna send someone to help me but he never did I was all alone I was like a helpless dog dying on the side of the road and I just let her do it I said no once and after she didn't stop I gave up I didn't know what do do anymore and I didn't wanna repeat myself for some reason so thus I didn't after that I stopped talking to her all together and in 8th grade after being out as transgender for about a year when kids would say stuff what I would correct them on my name she would stand up for me and I hated that I hated it so much it made me feel like I couldn't hate her for raping me and assaulting me because now shes standing up for me so if I hate her I would be a bad person even tho I know I am not a bad person for hating her because I have every right to because of what she did to me even if it was a long time anyways I think that's it sorry again that this is super long I don't know what others look like so I don't know if mines actually long or not compared to other peoples but if you read all of this thank you for reading my story and I hope all of you have an absolutely amazing 💗💗💗

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  • Story
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    #2

    I remember waking up that October morning and having no idea whose living room I was in. But I wasn’t panicked, just confused. Things like this, sad to say, have happened to me in the past. Go to a party, get too drunk, and brown out most of the night and wake up in an unfamiliar place. But usually I was around other friends. But this was different. I sat up on the couch and feverishly began looking for my phone for some sort of glimmer of hope that I had not been so irresponsible to have lost my phone, on top of my dignity. There, already blaming myself. I quickly found my phone by my side and had multiple missed texts from my roommate and from two of my good friends. “Where are you?”.. “Are you okay?”.. So what happened? Someone stumbles into the living room at this time, someone that I still to this day honestly don’t know the name of. Immediately, graphic flash backs of the activities that occurred on the couch came rushing back. The couch that I sat on now. Quickly, I realized I needed to get out of this apartment. There in front of me stood a brolic, 6-foot something Caucasian male smiling, in far less distress than I was. By nature, I never want others to feel uncomfortable, even if that puts me in a position of feeling more uncomfortable. I always choose to save others before myself, it’s a character flaw that I actively am trying to work on. But even on this day, as vulnerable as I felt, I decided to continue to entertain this stranger who decided to take advantage of a far too drunk girl at a party. So I thought. I stayed at the apartment and made small talk, about what, who knows? I was too busy trying to act like I wasn’t the most uncomfortable person in the world. After about an hour of conversation, I requested that the man take me back to my car which was at the house were the party was the previous night. He agreed. When I reached my car, I quickly said goodbye, rushed inside, and called a close friend. She picked up the phone immediately saying “hey girl, are you okay?”. “Yeah, I’m fine. But I don’t remember much of last night. Did you have a good night?” I answered … as the conversation went on things began to make a bit more sense. My friend said she had also blacked out the entirety of the night. But here was his mistake: She had only had one drink, a few sips of one she was sharing with me. She was the driver. Staying sober for a handful of people. Then after this drink, her boyfriend was carrying her to the car because she became too incoherent to be at the party. Two male friends and her boyfriend knew something was wrong. She knew something was wrong. Her boyfriend told me later on that as they carried her into the apartment, she half-consciously tried to push out of their arms. Attempting to fall onto pavement over being carried inside. Resenting any form of touch. She quietly pleaded, ‘I have been drugged. Please do not touch me. Please do not do this’, again up the steps, through the door, as they tried to take her shoes off. Kicking while unable to keep her eyes open. Knowing enough, but not enough to know these men were there to keep her safe. And suddenly, I realized it was that man, the man who stood in that living room that morning who had given me the drink. What if one of us had taken that dose on our own. I proceeded to share the news with my friend and I decided to be drug tested for the both of us. Positive. I have no more details on my own night. The rest is left up to your imagination. I felt dirty, ashamed, angry, but most of all embarrassed. What had I done the night before in front of my classmates and peers, that I respected and that respected me. There were many feelings involved with this event that I chose to let go of and to just let the event be a thing of the past. This incident impacted the amount that I attended parties while in school and certainly made me more conscious of my surrounding when I did go out. I relied on the counsel of my friends to provide me with support for the amount of shame and indignity I felt over the following few weeks that turned into months. I strongly believe it is because of these friends that I was able to continue after this event with a stronger mind. This support system. Today, I seldom think of the event. It happened, I learned from it, and I have grown since. I am a true believer that you should only invest your energy in things that help you grow and for that fact I choose not to let this day impact me at this point. Today, I am in a healthy, happy new relationship and choose not to be held back by this one night’s events. I am still in control of my own damn life.

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  • If you are reading this, you have survived 100% of your worst days. You’re doing great.

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    From a survivor
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    COCSA: Can a victim be older than their perpetrator?

    When I was 12/13 and my brother was 9ish, he started to grope me. At first it was just quick grabs of my breasts or ass. But he started to get more confident and began groping and squeezing for longer and longer periods of time and doing it more frequently. Eventually he started grabbing/cupping my vulva through my clothes. I was a bit bigger than him and could successfully fight him off, but I was not allowed to. My parents knew what was happening and he often did stuff like this in front of them. They ignored it and acted like it wasn't happening. He never got in trouble for it. They would only tell him to stop in the moment if there was a guest over or I was begging them to momentarily intervene. But if I pushed him, hit him, or even just yelled at him to stop, I got in trouble with my parents. I cried and begged my parents for months to talk to him and make him stop, but they never did. I was constantly choosing between letting my own brother touch me and getting punished by my parents for self-defense. It was agony. This probably went on for 9 months. I don't know if I'm really a victim of abuse or anything. My brother was younger than me and smaller than me. In COCSA cases, it's almost always an older abuser and a younger victim. That's not my situation. He knew touching me was wrong, but he didn't have a complete understanding of consent and sex. But, he was old enough to understand "no" and me crying. As his older sister, I feel like I also have a responsibility towards him and that I should have done more in that situation. But how could I? My parents didn't help me and I was punished for protecting myself.

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  • We all have the ability to be allies and support the survivors in our lives.

    Message of Healing
    From a survivor
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    Healing was learning. I was not broken and I was worthy of love and somehow found the light at the end of a very dark tunnel....

    Dear reader, this message contains language of self-harm that some may find triggering or discomforting.

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  • Story
    From a survivor
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    #1766

    #1766
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  • Message of Hope
    From a survivor
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    You can live a good life despite hard things happening

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  • Story
    From a survivor
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    "Terror in the Stillness of the Night"

    “THE TERROR IN THE STILLNESS OF THE NIGHT” Warning: This article contains references to childhood sexual abuse By Name Insomnia first started to rear its ugly head in my life when I was in the second grade. Each evening after I was sent to bed, I lay awake long into the night with a pounding heart and a body paralyzed with terror as I pictured a monkey-like man with an axe in his head flying through the window over my bed coming to kill me. I have no idea where that terrifying image came from, but that scene played over and over in my head long into the night until I finally felt the sweet release of sleep overtake me. And even when sleep rescued me from these terrifying images, that didn’t guarantee that the fear would stop. Several times a week I would be violently awoken from nightmares that left me with a racing heart and terror running through my body. I was also a sleepwalker. Often in the mornings Mom would laughingly tell me she found me wandering around the house late at night while still asleep. I never remembered those nocturnal wanderings the next day, nor did I understand what they were. But Mom sure thought they were funny. At that time my mother was married to her third husband, an abusive pedophile named 3rd Husband. I did not have a good childhood. From as far back as I can remember, I was verbally, sexually and physically abused by my mother and the various sick men she brought into our lives. My mother had many relationships when I was growing up, some boyfriends, some husbands. By the time I was nine years old, there were six “father” figures in my life, almost all of them abusive. We moved often. It was a lonely and terrifying childhood. When I was nine years old, my mother married her fourth husband, a truck driver named 4th Husband, a man she had only known for two weeks. After they got married, that’s when the insomnia went from bad to worse. 4th Husband was also a pedophile. I was born in the mid ‘60s. Other than the abuse I suffered at home, I lived a relatively sheltered life. It would be many long years before computers, the internet or cell phones came into existence. Our TV had only four channels, and each show was heavily censored. Other than occasional kissing, not once did I witness people in bed having any kind of sexual activity. My sex education came from personal experience, the abuse I suffered at home. Shortly after Mom and 4th Husband got married, we moved from California back to Wisconsin where I was born. During the drive back to Wisconsin, we stayed in motels, my older brother and I in one bed, Mom and 4th Husband in the other. Being a light sleeper, one night I woke in the middle of the night to strange sounds in the bed next to us. “Harder, Honey, Harder,” Mom moaned as 4th Husband moved on top of her. Mom and 4th Husband were having sex in the bed next to us. Even though I had witnessed my mother having sex many times over the years, it still shocked me to my very core as I watched them through the sliver of light peeking through the curtains. I was utterly sickened at the sight and sound of their lovemaking. And with each moan of pleasure, my stomach got more and more nauseated. Finally, I turned over, pulled my knees to my chest to soothe the sickness in my stomach and cried silent tears into my pillow. I didn’t sleep a wink the rest of that long night. After we moved to Wisconsin, Mom and 4th Husband brought me into their bed and started sexually abusing me. Each evening when I was sent to bed for the night, I lay in bed for hours waiting for the sweet relief of sleep to overtake me and rescue me from the night terrors. Thankfully the monkey-like man with an ax flying through my window had been left behind when we moved, only to be replaced by another terror, and that was waiting for Mom and 4th Husband to come upstairs to go to bed. I never knew if they were going to bring me into their room and abuse me or go straight to their room for the night. Even though I was exhausted mentally and physically from lack of sleep, my poor body refused to relax as my tortured mind raced with every what-if scenario that could happen. Often I was still awake when Mom and 4th Husband went to bed. The nights that they went to their room, I knew it wouldn’t be long before they would start having sex. As soon as I heard their muffled voices and their moans of pleasure, terror filled my body and tears of sadness flowed from my eyes as I flashed back to that motel room. I was utterly sickened knowing what they were doing. Even when they were done and had gone to sleep, I still couldn’t get the sounds of their lovemaking out of my head. Long into the night I lay in my darkened room staring fearfully into the suffocating darkness. Sometimes a car went by, a plane flew overhead or a dog barked, but other than that, it was quiet. The stillness of the night was terrifying to me. As the years passed, the insomnia got worse. Without realizing it, somewhere along the way, sleep had become a faceless monster that dominated my life. All through the rest of grade school, middle school and high school, I rarely got a good nights’ sleep. I went through my days in a shroud of exhaustion, and my poor head just ached from lack of sleep. Each evening, instead of finding comfort and solace at the thought of a refreshing nights’ rest, all I felt was a growing dread the closer it got to bedtime. And the nightmares continued to haunt me. It seemed I could never escape the terror of my life. When I graduated from high school, I went on to college. Even though none of my family went on to get a higher education, I knew that was my ticket out of a life of relying on other people. Most of the adults I had grown up with had let me down and brought me nothing but pain. I had learned that the only person I could rely on was myself. And for that I needed an education. But when I left my home, as much as I wanted to leave the pain of my past behind me, the insomnia continued to haunt me night after night. Rarely did I get a full nights’ sleep. Often I lay awake for hours in my darkened room tossing and turning with a racing mind wondering when or if I would be able to sleep and worrying how I would get through the next day if I didn’t get enough rest. It was a vicious cycle. I had started drinking when I was 14 years old as a means to alleviate the intense pain I suffered at home. Drinking helped relax me and brought me some measure of happiness, however fleeting. Sometimes I was even able to laugh, which was something that was sorely lacking in my life. If I could have spent every waking moment of my childhood in an altered state, I would have, but liquor was hard to come by since I was underage. By the time I graduated from college, I had become a full-blown functioning alcoholic. Almost every night I got blackout drunk in an effort to relax my body enough to sleep. Rarely did that work, but I kept trying. The hangovers the next day were always brutal and made the pain in my head even worse. But those few hours that I drank each evening helped me to relax and gave me some measure of happiness, however fleeting. I tried many things to try to get rest, sleeping pills, herbal remedies, over-the-counter sleep aids, praying, pleading with God for sleep, prescription pills, muscle relaxers, Nyqil, Benadryl, massage therapy, hypnotherapy, acupuncture, counseling, meditation, deep breathing techniques. I tried it all. I was desperate for rest. Often I would stagger sleeping pills, taking some before bed, then more when I woke up a few hours later. Unfortunately, as much as I tried, nothing took away that nighttime monster that I had dealt with since I was in second grade. Two hours, three hours, four hours, six hours or maybe even seven on a rare night. I was in absolute misery. It never once occurred to me that the abuse I had suffered as a child had affected me. Once I left my home, I did everything in my power to leave the various monsters of my past behind. I rarely thought about my childhood. Thinking about my past was akin to putting my hand on a hot stove. It was that painful. Unfortunately, those monsters followed me into adulthood. Each morning when I woke up from a night of restless sleep, my thoughts turned obsessively to how I could get enough rest the next night. And those thoughts dominated almost every waking moment. I was desperate for relief but had no idea how to make that happen. And the sleepless nights and the head pain worsened the depression that I had suffered since early childhood. Most days I just prayed for an early death to escape the mental and physical pain I was in. On my worst days my mind just spun on a hamster wheel of suicidal thoughts, anything to escape the pain. Shortly before my 26th birthday I got married. A few years later my husband and I started a family. And when I was pregnant, I slept like a baby. Each time I lay my head down on my pillow, my body relaxed in a way that was foreign to me. It felt like a warm and comforting blanket had magically descended on my nervous system, and I slept like a baby. I just couldn’t get enough of that amazing, nourishing sleep. But as soon as each of my children were born, the insomnia returned. Raising my family, working a demanding career, marriage, and the stressors of daily life with little sleep left me depleted mentally and physically. The only thing that powered me through those difficult days was the immense amount of adrenaline that sizzled through my veins. As the years passed and my children grew older, sleep issues continued to haunt me. My friends that slept well didn’t understand what I was going through. Some even laughed at my struggles. “What’s wrong with you? I sleep like a baby!” said one friend, “Nope, not me, I never have problems sleeping!” laughed another. Finally, I learned to keep my mouth. It was just too painful to be laughed at over something that I couldn’t control. Each morning, even though I was exhausted, in pain and depressed, I put on a fake smile and powered through my day the best I could. In my early 50s I finally started to confront my childhood. At that time I started writing a book about what I went through. As the memories came back and the painful words spilled onto the paper, I couldn’t help but shake my head in grief and shock over what I had endured as a child. But one of the things that shocked me the most was how young I was when insomnia first entered my life. Shortly after I started to confront my childhood, I was diagnosed with C-PTSD due to years of childhood trauma. At that time, I also lost my 30- plus career as a court reporter due to the severe sleep issues and the daily migraines. I could no longer handle the demands of my stressful career. My body simply gave out. I was absolutely devastated when I could no longer return to my career that I had worked so hard for. Once I got the diagnosis of C-PTSD, I have worked hard to heal myself from my past. I have listened to and read everything at my disposal that will aid in my healing. To say I am motivated is an understatement. All I have ever wanted was to feel good, mentally and physically, and that is something I have rarely felt in my life. At the time of this writing, I am finally starting to confront the insomnia. Without realizing it, deep down I felt insomnia was a life sentence. My mother has insomnia, as did her mother. I have no idea how far back in my family’s history the inability to sleep goes. I grew up hearing on a daily basis how exhausted and miserable my mother was. I believe along with the trauma I suffered as a child, somewhere along the way that seed of ancestral insomnia was planted in me early on and grew as the years passed. I have confronted so many of the fears in my life since I have started my journey of healing from the past. And almost all of those fears stem from the trauma that I suffered in my childhood. I am bound and determined to conquer insomnia. Working to make my bedtime routine as peaceful as possible has been huge. Meditation and gentle stretching really work to calm my nervous system. But if I skip the evening meditation and stretching, I don’t stress about it. Now that I understand what created this years’ long monster of sleepless nights, I am slowly releasing the many fears that created it and have kept me captive for the past 52 years. It is a process undoing the years and years of trauma. When I go to bed now, I make sure I am ready, meaning that I am tired. No longer do I lay in bed for hours trying to force sleep and worrying how I will feel the next day if I don’t get rest. If I can’t fall asleep, I read a good book or watch a happy movie, anything that calms my nervous system. But the biggest thing I am learning is not to worry what the next day will look like if I don’t get enough rest. Releasing the fear has been life changing.

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  • “You are not broken; you are not disgusting or unworthy; you are not unlovable; you are wonderful, strong, and worthy.”

    Story
    From a survivor
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    Beauty from Ashes

    The month of April is Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention month. My Never Quit Story began over a decade ago while I was serving on active duty overseas. It was a cold winter night with snow on the ground and at the time, a ‘normal’ evening spent with friends that mirrored all the others previously. But it would become the night that would change my life forever. A part of me died that night. In the course of the evening, I was drugged, raped, and the stranger responsible also attempted to silence me forever, but somehow, for some reason, I survived. Sometime afterwards, I began sinking into a dark hole, abusing alcohol, trying to bury the memories. I locked that night away into my soul, I tried running from it, but it began to consume my life. Until one day, almost a decade after, a flash of memories hit me head-on. It felt as if someone took a baseball bat and shattered the glass I had built around that night into a million pieces. I completely broke down, and as if it had been divinely planned, there were three women present that told me of a program of therapy at the VA specifically for veterans that had been sexually assaulted. I came to learn that Military Sexual Trauma (MST) was an actual diagnosis. The day I walked into the mental health department at the VA is THE DAY my journey of healing began. A psychologist picked me as her patient, and we started Prolonged Exposure Therapy. For me, this was the most difficult thing I had ever done. Prolonged Exposure therapy was developed by Edna Foa, PhD, Director of the Center for the Treatment and Study of Anxiety. Treatment is approximately 12-15 sessions, one session per week and 90 minutes per session. The American Psychological Association defines Prolonged Exposure therapy as follows: • “Imaginal exposure occurs in session with the patient describing the event in detail in the present tense with guidance from the therapist. Together, patient and therapist discuss and process the emotion raised by the imaginal exposure in session. The patient is recorded while describing the event so that she or he can listen to the recording between sessions, further process the emotions and practice the breathing techniques. • In vivo exposure, that is confronting feared stimuli outside of therapy, is assigned as homework. The therapist and patient together identify a range of possible stimuli and situations connected to the traumatic fear, such as specific places or people. They agree on which stimuli to confront as part of in vivo exposure and devise a plan to do so between sessions. The patient is encouraged to challenge him or herself but to do so in a graduated fashion so as to experience some success in confronting feared stimuli and coping with the associated emotion”. So, in my own words, I sat in a non-descript room with my therapist and while clutching my teddy bear, I began recording the events of that night over and over and nauseatingly over again. It was disgusting, gut-wrenching, exhausting hard work! Most times, I would be drenched in sweat, extremely nauseous, always sobbing, confronting so many emotions and my stomach never failed to make horrible sounds. It seemed to me as if the trauma, pain, memories, and emotions were living and warring in my stomach. Re-living the trauma was extremely depleting and I never left her office without feeling I had fought a battle. My homework after each appointment was to listen to my recorded sessions. Hearing my voice for the first time telling the story was completely heartbreaking. It was if I were listening to a stranger tell the darkest and most evil tale. And each time I listened to those tapes, the nausea, the grief and the pain would wash over me. The word ‘why’ became a normal component of my everyday language. But the most intense part of this battle for me was about to begin. Living alone, my family living in other states and no friends or companion, I confronted the past head-on and determined to finish it. One day as I was sitting in my therapist’s office she told me that some patients with combat trauma and victims of rape experience a visceral hatred of God. In the darkest and most vulnerable experiences, where is God? That was my question. Although I had been raised in church my entire life and I believed in God, I carried a fear of Him and the belief that as long as I was a good person nothing bad would happen to me. As my treatment continued, I began to discover that within the deep recesses of my soul festered a bitterness toward God. This bitterness consumed me. I began to question why He could let this happen and why He could perform so many miracles and yet (I felt) abandon me when I needed Him the most. By this point, the screams in my mind became louder, the depression pulling me down into some dark abyss and despair choked the pin-point light of hope. My wrestling with God had begun and I was determined to find answers. This is not a fairytale story; it is an ugly, gut-wrenching fight to Never Quit. During my journey over the past several years, I have found peace with God, but it has not been easy. I have come to realize, that for me, God had been present with me that dark night, during the event, and during the therapy. He was there with me in every therapy session and the ultimate goal was to have “beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that I might be called a tree of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that God might be glorified” (Isaiah, 61:3). How do I equate that evil event evolving into beauty from ashes? Well, it took almost two years to accept. I began to realize God was slowly, and ever so painstakingly, healing those deep wounds created by the trauma, grief, and pain one layer at a time, a broken piece at a time. My daughter told me of the ancient Japanese art of Kintsugi (“golden joinery or golden repair”). Applying the concepts of this art as an analogy, I want to share how I began to understand. Ayuda (2018), shares her definition of Kintsugi as “the Japanese art of putting broken pottery pieces back together with gold — built on the idea that in embracing flaws and imperfections, you can create an even stronger, more beautiful piece of art. Every break is unique and instead of repairing an item like new, the 400-year-old technique actually highlights the "scars" as a part of the design” (para. 2). One day while shopping with my sister-in-law at a thrift store, we found two genuine Kutani Japanese lamps and purchased them. On first sight of my lamp and on close inspection, there were tiny, extensive ‘cracks’ filled with a gold color but as I began to research, I found that these lamps are finished with real gold. I placed my lamp in my room and as the light filtered in from my window the lamp had the most beautiful golden glow I have ever seen. From far away, those miniscule lines or ‘cracks’ were not visible at all. What was most visible was the glow of the gold that filled the lines. So, for me, I have come to embrace and accept the broken pieces. Is my journey complete? No. Along the way, I have lost many dear things to my heart; BUT what I have gained has been more wonderful than I could have ever imagined. I have gained peace with God and with myself. I have found my voice. And on this side of the ‘mountain of my trauma’, I have found a purpose for the pain. So, I want to say -- THERE IS HOPE. You are not alone. There is a peace that passes all understanding. And in the darkest moments of life, when the storm rages and your heart breaks, and you are floundering in the fight; as you take labored breaths, steeling yourself to stand and face the wreckage, there is a light that awaits you. There are good plans for you and when you are ready, the broken pieces, the pain, the memories and the darkness can subside leaving strength forged by fire, mended with gold, shining a bright light into the world. Today I affirm, I am not a victim of my past, my traumatic event, nor am I the girl that I once was. Yet, with God’s mercy, I will never quit. During my therapy, my therapist gave me the nickname ‘Girl with the Sword’, paying homage to what she saw - the fighter in me. I will always be so grateful for her and for her courage and strength in walking through the pain and darkness with me. She has truly been my battle buddy in this fight. Never Quit. - Girl with the Sword.

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  • Story
    From a survivor
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    Name's Death

    Name's Death When I was younger--18,19,20. I babysat your kid. You’d come home super drunk with your wife. I remember my heart beating so fast and my hands sweating right before you’d walk in the front door--afraid for what was to come. You’d greet me with a kiss on the cheek while you took a selfie of us. You’d want a hug when you were in your boxers. You’d walk me home at 2 am with your arm around me, making sure I got home safely, when I really needed protection from you. One time you hugged me and threw me on to your bed, but that was just one time. My mom and others always said it “almost” crossed the line. I still wonder what would it have taken to cross the line--rape? I wanted my parents to protect me but the protection never came. I continued to babysit for your family--for another couple of years.It’s like I needed a blessing from someone to finally get me to stop, Tell me it was enough, He’d crossed your line. It wasn’t your fault. A couple of days ago, you died. The neighborhood praised you--and still does. You were Name--the unofficial mayor of our neighborhood who got so many things done. All I hear is that it’s ok to sexually harass women --it’s okay because you had power and status. I’m mad, confused, frustrated, ashamed, and embarrassed. I can’t out you anymore, can’t write the open letter to the community because you are dead and people become angels when they die. In a community that I loved so much, I love it less now.

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  • Message of Healing
    From a survivor
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    What Healing Means to Me? Healing, to me, is a profound journey that transcends the physical and touches the very core of our being. It's not just about the restoration of health but also the rejuvenation of the spirit and mind. My experience with healing is deeply intertwined with my faith and obedience to the Lord. I believe that my miraculous healing from AIDS was a direct consequence of this unwavering faith and commitment. In 2010, when I was diagnosed with HIV, my world was shaken. By 2013, it had progressed to full-blown AIDS, and medical professionals gave me mere weeks to live together. Nevertheless, it was during this darkest time that my faith shone brightest. I looked to God, placing my trust entirely in His hands. Through prayer, obedience, and unwavering belief, I found strength and hope. The Lord guided me through the valley of despair, and with His grace, I emerged healed in 2014. This healing was not only a physical miracle but a testament to the power of faith and divine intervention. It reinforced my belief that healing is holistic, encompassing mind, body, and soul. Healing means embracing faith, obeying the Lord's guidance, and finding peace and strength in His love. It is about not playing ball with past pain and embracing the divine promise of a brighter, healthier future. My healing journey has been a testament to the transformative power of faith, and I am eternally grateful for the second chance at life it has given me.

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  • Story
    From a survivor
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    I am not Powerless

    This isn’t about one incident but it’s happened so many times and how it’s android me feel. Today was hard for me my car battery died and I needed help, my youngest daughter crossed my boundaries again, and my ex did as he was supposed to helping me. I felt so ganged up in today as if I was being bullied. It seems as I sat here in my bed trying to process the day and feel what I’m feeling it hit me that it feels like hoe it feels to be raped, which is strange but almost everything seems to remind me of it. I have someone I care very much for but he goes silent on me and we don’t talk for a while and then he comes back like it’s all fine but it’s not. His silence triggers me greatly to a point where I get so triggered I couldn’t control it. I suppose i didn’t realize it was mimicking the silent treatment. My ex today when the car battery died I called a few people to help and finally got my sister. My ex forgot his jumper cables and I asked him to ask some people in the parking lot and he got mad and then went in the store and came out and said your gonna owe me for this in a frustrating loud tone. He wasn’t yelling but it felt like yelling and hurt my feelings I wanted to cry. He told me he has jumper cables and if he had to buy them I was gonna owe him. As I’m writing this parts of me feel like a fool or at least think I am for asking him for help. When I was 18 when got married when I was 17, he told me if I didn’t have sex with him he would rape me and well I was tired and said no I also had a headache which I just remembered and he did it. I am in Emdr therapy processing what happened and the memories are started to slowly surface. But also there are other incidents that happened that are also surfacing. There are parts I remember such as the man with glasses on top of me and Everytime I see the town mayor my stomach turns in knots. He was around me when I was little and the resemblance is so similar but I don’t know if it was him for sure and maybe I never will. My mom let men touch me and pushed guys onto to my ex. I never known in the way I should and I don’t really care for having sex. I’ve been healing and working through all this but in some ways I’m afraid of everything and anything can trigger those feelings again like today when my ex said I would owe him. I haven’t been feeling well and have been needing some help and I suppose I was isolated so much of my life I don’t have a support system. I don’t have family or friends to go too and anytime I try new support groups no one shows up and they can be too far to drive. My youngest daughter has bdp and well it’s hard to be around her and she constantly crosses any boundaries I have which seems to be a running theme in my life. If anything today showed me I was able to control my emotions without expressing them to the people that hurt me, I came back and journaled and ate chicken noodle soup, and took a hot shower to help with the somatic pains surfacing in my body and now I’m under the blanket holding a pillow writing this story. I’m not powerless I never was I’ve just been around crappy people my whole life and I will always have been raped and sexually abused but it doesn’t have to define me.

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  • “It can be really difficult to ask for help when you are struggling. Healing is a huge weight to bear, but you do not need to bear it on your own.”

    Message of Healing
    From a survivor
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    Havent healed yet but i pray i one day get freed

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  • Story
    From a survivor
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    #1441

    I feel miserable. You gaslighted me for my clothing, my actions, most of the things I did. But why did you say you like me and love me if you don't like a lot of things about me. You tried to control me and you did. You tried to block my relationship with ppl, you acted like you supported me but the truth is you always wanted to block me. I forgave you after you hit me, pushed me, yelled at me and punishing me for nothing. We broke up several times, because you told me to but you always came back and said sorry for being jerk and wanted to get back me. I knew we were not in a healthy relationship and you had a lot of red flags. I don't know why but I thought you were being genuine when you apologized and believed in you. Every time we got back together, the problem didn't go away. I knew it. I regret and feel miserable because of my decision. I just wanted a supportive and loving relationship. Maybe I was too naive. But I'm that kind of girly who believes in love. You were being so aggressive after we broke up. The last breakup was also initiated by you. Why do you care what I'm wearing after we breakup? Why can't I wear something that I want to? You also said that it's none of your business but why did you start cursing and threatening me after you saw me? Why do I have to feel insecure and scared for walking my neighborhood? You told me that you moved closer to my house but you have to remember that I didn't ask you too. I just told you it will be great if we live close by when you told me you wanted to move closer to me. I didn't asked and begged you to come. It was your decision but why are you blaming me for moving closer? I lived in my neighborhood much longer than you but why are you acting like you were the one who lived longer? I'm scared to see your cold eyes. It feels like something has broken inside my heart or body. I cry everyday because of you. Not because I miss you. I feel sorry for myself and sad that I'm experiencing all of this situation ny myself. I'm embarrassed and ashamed to tell what I experienced even though I am a victim. Maybe it's harder for me because I'm a victim. I'm scared that pol might judge me for my wrong decisions. I'm frustrated and feel alone. I don't feel alive these days. I pretend I'm okay but I'm not. I know this will end but I want to end soon but I also know that this won't end sooner than I want.

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  • “To anyone facing something similar, you are not alone. You are worth so much and are loved by so many. You are so much stronger than you realize.”

    Story
    From a survivor
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    Prisoner of War- Cat's Story

    The day I ran from my abuser, I felt an intense urge to turn the car around. My sister’s voice kept replaying through my head. “Catherine, keep your eyes on the road. Don’t look at your phone. Don’t stop.” For five years, I had been raped, beaten, brainwashed, stripped of my identity and isolated from my family and friends. I knew if I turned that car around, I wouldn’t survive. At first, I couldn’t do anything for myself. My sister had to remind me to brush my teeth, bathe and eat. My abuser had controlled everything, and I mean everything. From what and how much I ate to what I wore, how I spoke, and who I spoke to. I didn’t know how to live outside of him and his needs. For years, I had been operating in survival mode. Everything had centered around him, what he expected from me and what would set him off. I was constantly walking on eggshells. The day I escaped, he told me I was pregnant. The only birth control allowed was the pull-out method. Rape is a hard word for me, because I think of it as being physically held down. But he had psychological control over me. I had no agency or choice. I was to abide by his rules or there would be repercussions. Although pregnancy may have been physically impossible because my weight was around 90 pounds, I was still terrified. I was in the South. If I were pregnant, there would be little to no abortion access. Luckily, I was able to get the Plan B pill within 72 hours. In my mid-20s, I was diagnosed with HPV. My abuser had prohibited me from getting health insurance and health care. The domestic violence hotline gave me resources for health care in my sister’s area, a small town in Georgia. None of these resources would take me because I didn’t have health insurance. The only one who agreed to see me was the health department; they only tested for certain STDs and did not perform gynecological exams. Like many women who have been in my situation, I felt lost. I knew I would be going back home to New Orleans for the holidays. Fortunately, I was able to schedule an exam with Planned Parenthood. They were sensitive to my situation and provided me with information and options. Most importantly, the staff treated me like a person. Since I left, my life has gotten much better, but I’m still on edge. Daily, I have traumatic flashbacks and second-guess and dissect most things.. With holistic therapeutic modalities, I’m healing. The only time the police were called was for me to escape. I had told my abuser I was leaving. He held me hostage in a hotel room for a couple of hours to keep me from leaving. I was able to get out once the police arrived. A year and half after my escape, I called to look into pressing charges. The police had never written a report. There was only documentation of the phone call and the time they arrived and left. They told me to file my own report, which at the time of the incident I didn't know about. So, I filed my report. When I spoke to an investigator, he questioned me on why I was looking at filing charges over a year later. I told him that I had dealt with intense trauma where I couldn't even eat and bathe without being told to do so. He said that it was too late, I. didn't have enough evidence, and it would go no where. And when I called back to at least get the report I filed, the woman was dismissive. And they had NO REPORT. Why would I go through a system that enables, ridicules, and disempowers victims? I am still healing and getting back on my feet, and because of this treatment from the very department that is suppose to have my back, I have decided to put it to bed. For now, my focus is on speaking up and helping other survivors.

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  • Welcome to Our Wave.

    This is a space where survivors of trauma and abuse share their stories alongside supportive allies. These stories remind us that hope exists even in dark times. You are never alone in your experience. Healing is possible for everyone.

    What feels like the right place to start today?
    Story
    From a survivor
    🇮🇪

    Because we were married…

    I’m sharing here because I hope I can reach out to other women who may have gone through marital rape or may still be going through it and I want you to know you are not alone. For years I felt as if I was asleep as I couldn’t face up to what was happening to me, why I was losing weight and why I so depressed. I minimised everything, even to him. I would try and make him feel better afterwards. Most of the time it was as simple as me saying no to sex and him doing it anyway while I was completely disconnected, and it was so often, I would lie there and wait til he was done most of the time, but each thing built up to him pushing the boundaries further, sometimes when we were out in public, always after I went out with my friends, it was part of the deal. I always told myself he’d be in better form if I just went along with it. He was always so stressed and so angry. And I loved him and sometimes I enjoyed sex with him. It made things very confusing in my head. And I was eating barely anything, which he encouraged, he was constantly buying me exercise equipment and sexy outfits. I kept getting sick, I was tired and low all the time. My family and friends were saying I wasn’t myself. There were 3 incidents that I play over and over in my head that I couldn’t minimise (although I tried). And they led to me telling him our marriage was over. That was a year ago. I thought it might help me to write one of them down and maybe someone will identify with me and it might help them. It was at his best friends wedding and as usual, he wanted us to do something exciting sexually. So we went to the men’s toilets. We were kissing and we started to have sex. I was quite drunk. All of a sudden he turned me around and bent me over the toilet, my hands on the window sill. I started to say no. It came out in what sounded like a little girls voice. I don’t know why I remember that so well. I don’t know why I didn’t shout. He raped me anally in the men’s cubicle and I was crying looking at a dirty window sill and I could hear strange men outside commenting. Afterwards I kept asking why did you do that, I didn’t want that, it hurt me, you were too rough, I said no. But he he didn’t want to talk about it. He left me sitting with one of his male friends that I didn’t know to go outside with his best friend and have cigars. He saw I was in pain and bleeding for days after. I stayed with him for years after that. Other things happened after that too. I ended up feeling like his stress ball, a rag doll, good for nothing else. I was with him since I was 18 years old and we have children together. He was all I knew. He was my husband and I loved him. No one knew what was happening. Everyone thought we were a couple in love. It wasn’t until I told him I couldn’t share a bed with him anymore and I was starting ti have panic attacks that we went to a marriage counsellor and it all came out. I woke up. It was her face. Her reaction. I felt so stupid and embarrassed. And he tried to explain it away to her shouting at her that he was a man. I was sitting there thinking how did I let this happen to me? I always saw myself as quite a strong, intelligent, bubbly person. I’m in my 40s, I should know better. I was looking at the counsellors face and it somehow didn’t feel as if it was happening. I realised I was shaking and she was worried about me and he was shouting at her. I felt so embarrassed and helpless. And stupid in front of another grown woman. I was thinking what if this was someone I loved telling me this happened to them? But still in my head I kept thinking its not really rape because he was my husband, and I loved him and so many times I wanted to have sex with him so how could it be rape. But why did he want to hurt me? I kept thinking this couldn’t be happening to me. Anyway thanks for reading. I hope it helps someone. I feel it helped me to write it down.

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  • Story
    From a survivor
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    My Dad - My Hero, My Idol, My Abuser.......

    As an only child, I had no one to look up to really as a kid. But I always looked up to my Dad. Even though he was never really around due to work (although Mam worked more than he did and still found lots of time to spend with me), I still idolised him. He was my hero. He would always say 'Dads know everything - remember that', so lying to my dad (even little white lies) were pointless. Though when I hit 13 I began to realise he actually DID know everything. He knew what myself and my friends would talk about, he would know exactly where I was and who I was with without even needing to ask me, and I would always wonder why. In reality he had my phone tracked and could read all my messages. Now that I have been through the court system and he has been imprisoned for the abuse he inflicted upon me, I can confirm that he was in fact grooming me from the age of 13. About a month after my 18th Birthday, began the horrific 7.5 year abuse that I suffered. My Dad, masked for the first 2 years as a stranger, blackmailed me into performing sexual acts with strange men in our home - the one place I should've felt safe. When I finally realised it was him, I couldn't tell you how it then turned into just open ended abuse and rape from him. He would advertise us as a couple on hook up sites and in order to avoid physical beatings I would go along with it. I feared for my life so much that endless rapes and sexual assaults were easier - imagine that being the easiest choice - until you're in it, you just don't know how you'll react. I stopped going out, I gave up my hobbies, whilst in college I gave up my part time job - he controlled every single part of my life. And if I even let my "everything is rosey' mask slip even for a second, especially in front of my Mam, well it just doesn't bear thinking about. Fortunately for me, once Mam did find out, he was gone out of my life within 30 mins. Unfortunately, he went on to groom and abuse others after that. He was convicted, and is currently serving his prison sentence - but the fear of him stilll remains.

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  • Story
    From a survivor
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    Just words. Dirty Words

    Just words. You have trouble talking about these things. You realize you have trouble talking about a lot of things. You remember being excited about your first job at Company Name. One of your friends works there and you know a lot of people work there as a summer job. It’s the 1990’s and it’s been grandfathered in that they can pay you less than minimum wage because it’s like a part time training experience for students getting their first work experience. Like a newspaper route. Those are for boys. You got so excited after being nervous you asked for an application along with your friend. You don’t remember meeting him then. So many people want to get chosen for that crap job because for some reason it’s become a sought after thing among the cool kids. You do remember the phone call that you can come for an interview. Walking home you wonder if being cute and having larger breasts than most almost freshman girls had something to do with it. You met Name and remember him for sure this time. The way you look has been a curse far more than a blessing. One reason people would not feel that bad for you. 'God sure blessed you, honey." You have so many bad memories, blocked memories, repressed memories because of Name. You are having second thoughts as tears build up. You need a drink. You quit drinking years ago and today you have three months and eight days sober. Your record is nine months and two days. You are strong. Most of the time. You are hollow. All the time. Name wasn’t the last but he was the first. You change his name although you don’t want to. He is the symbol of your hatred of all that is wrong with men. You were tricked. Name got what he wanted from you. Too many times. Too many times before you stopped going back. Just stopped. You could have just stopped after the first time he held you close and caressed you before your mom picked you up that night. The first time. You still don’t understand or forgive yourself for that. You had let a boy at a party and a boy at an 8th grade dance put their hand up your shirt. You had liked it so much those times. It had been exciting and happy. Name did not make you happy. You went back. You want to talk about something else now. Not the other men who thought your body was their plaything. Not the time you went to Ireland with your Aunts and mom. You miss mom. That was a good trip. You got back to that a lot. You sat down to talk about things you don’t talk about. On a family trip to Adventureland you asked your cousin if was considered losing your virginity of a boy did it to your boobs. You pretended it was a cute boy, not Name. It was hard to breathe with him sitting on your torso thrusting. You sometimes break things and scream. Never when your son is around. You have two jobs and don’t really like the one that pays the most. Your college degree does not count much. How much life is wasted on despair and doubt and taking the wrong path? You feel relief when he finally finished. You hate when he finishes because you know he is stealing his ultimate pleasure from you when he has a wife. He acts like it was just another day at work to keep you on his leash. You are pathetic. His remnants are inside you every time you go home after closing with him. Just another miserable day in the life. You say nothing. You tell no one. You are worthless except as a vessel for him. Your parents say nice things to you, about you. They always have. They have to. They don’t know what you really are. A black shame is the times you felt pleasure in your body while he was doing it do you. At least while you remained quiet and motionless there was some dignity. Defiance. Insult to him. When your body and voice reacted like you liked it it was a betrayal. Like you liked that tub of disgusting man on top of you and inside of you, fucking you on that tile floor, kissing you like a lover. You befriended a group of guys by mid high school. Over a year after Name was more than thorn in your soul. A deep callous. The group figured out what you were. They played football. They were important and had strong will. They shared you and passed you around. They told you they loved you. That you were the coolest girl. They took what they wanted when they wanted. Why? Name 2 was you lab partner for biology. He was the first. He was the only one your age. You went in his car for lunch and met some others. They wanted you. You volunteered. It is all you are good for. Draining them of their juice so they can be happy and feel like men. So you can feel empty and dirty. Even after they graduated they got together for group fun, or had you sneak out at night to go for a ride. You headed far west after you graduated. A fresh start. An exodus. An escape. You went to one reunion. The ten year reunion. Name 2 came with his wife. He introduced you as his ex-girlfriend. You let hm take you to the disabled restroom and have his quickie. You went to the bars afterward and ditched your real friend and let Name 3 take you back to his hotel room to live his fantasies just because he claimed that he always loved you. They say attractive people have sex more frequently with more partners than normal people. The darkness behind that statement is that for females it is no always because they want it that way but because of the relentless pressure from men and how they will do anything if they get the opportunity. You are not a nice innocent girl. Would you have been if it had not been for Name like you want to think? Would you have let your much older cousin you barely know take you back into the woods with him behind their house to the shack where he smokes pot after a wedding. Then wait there for him to call his friends after he found out you were a bad girl and wait for them too. Swatting flies in your underwear while you waited for them. You did not drink because your mom did not allow it even though kids younger than you were. But your cousin and his local friends did. Four of them counting your cousin old enough to be your uncle. Still, you acted like you liked everything they did. They took it so far like you were the world's greatest toy. Porn star, they called you like it was the best thing you could be. The anal was excruciating. It was easier to just wash off all your makeup than to try to fix it after all the sweat and sticky. Smiles and complements followed by the deep hollow feeling of total isolation in the station wagon on the way back home from Kansas city. Hating Name and feeling like you betrayed your aunt because one of them was her fiancé. You got an infection and it was embarrassing when the doctor told you. At least it was a female doctor. The idea of a male gynecologist is unnerving. The one time you were examined by one was terrifying. You were in college. He was way too thorough and talkative like he was working up to asking you out on a date and you decided never again. The only one you ever had that did not wear gloves for the breast exam. The most sensual digital vaginal exam you ever had to check the cervix and ovaries for pain. Was his thumb supposed to be brushing your clitoris? You even wonder if he was recording it on his phone that you saw him adjust twice as it was peaking out of the breast pocket of his lab coat. His stupid November mustache he asked you if you liked. So some days you don’t eat. You exercise to maintain the body they want. It gives you value to them. You are nothing. People always say nice things. Hollow things. What if you had never met Name? What if you never got fucked on the floor for $3.45 an hour. On your back, on your hands and knees, sometimes even on top of him. Your first orgasm on that floor that smelled like stale milk and bleach. Having to tell your mom pick you up 45 minutes after the place closes for your cleaning duties. You used tampons just to keep from his semen leaking out on the way home. You pretended to be a virgin when you were far from it. He told you not to worry because he had a vasectomy. That part must have been true. You don't got on dates even though they always try to set you up. Not a chance. Your son is a good excuse. And a real reason. Real love. The Earth spins in space. Why can’t it just freeze and die like me? Your boss doesn’t go all the way with you because he won’t cheat on his wife. You give him oral because he doesn’t think that counts. Preserves his purity. He says he wants to so badly, like he can take whatever he wants from you but he is strong and valiant. You are nothing. He is handsome. You let him kiss you and fondle you. You long for his touch. He is not a great man but you long for him. The closest thing to a good man you have known. A father figure. Your son needs a father figure. He is everything. He deserves better. He loves you. He tells you are a good mom and that is worth enduring the world for as long as it takes. You put on a good face but he knows you are hollow, deep down. A wounded duck pretending to be a swan. Always pretending. Was there no pretending before Name? Maybe not. The days begin and your mind pretends and it is hard and the days end. Bad dreams on both ends. Will he be a good man? The funny thing is you want him to be a prince because he is your prince but even if he is like most men you want his total happiness. You want beautiful girls, good times, and strong friends for him. You exist to fake it and to have let those men enjoy you but mostly to give your son the best life possible beyond you. You are not worthless. It is not your fault. You are stronger than you know. Hollow words. They have to say it. They always have. No creativity. No insight. No truth. Just words.

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  • Story
    From a survivor
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    the story I'm finally strong enough to write.

    sorry that this is super long😭😭😭 when I was younger I was best friends with this girl we met on the first day of kindergarten and were inseparable and when we were 7 she started touching me on the school bus and I told the school and instead of helping they put me and her in the school counselor's office and she showed us a video of keeping our hands to ourselves and not letting other people touch out bodies 3 weeks she raped me in her bedroom and I didn't know what to do so I just laid there and didn't speak I think it made it worse that she is a girl and its not typical for females to rape other females so I felt as no one would believe me so I stayed quiet because of what happened the first time after that stuff kept happening but then I got into the 5th grade and we didn't see each other because it was there first real year of COVID so it was all basically online and we were in different classes but then 6th grade started and I was back to seeing her every day and that was super hard and she started to do that stuff and it was really bad on my mental health then she decided to punch me in the face for no reason so I stopped talking to her I ended up admitting myself to a psych ward where I did end up getting help and was doing better and I went to my ex friends play performance and this friend was friends with the girl at the time and I still wanted to be his friend so I because friends with her again and told her that I stopped talking to her because my best friend told me to that night she raped me in my own bedroom after I let her borrow my clothes my shows by hairbrush my everything and she still decided to rape me and that hurt and again like the first time I sat there doing and saying nothing for some reason I couldn't no matter what no matter what I thought no matter what I said nothing I was frozen I always everyone talk about fight or flight and no one ever talks about freeze even tho its one of the most common ones every time she did something like that I would freeze I wouldn't talk I would barely move I just laid there helpless like God was gonna send someone to help me but he never did I was all alone I was like a helpless dog dying on the side of the road and I just let her do it I said no once and after she didn't stop I gave up I didn't know what do do anymore and I didn't wanna repeat myself for some reason so thus I didn't after that I stopped talking to her all together and in 8th grade after being out as transgender for about a year when kids would say stuff what I would correct them on my name she would stand up for me and I hated that I hated it so much it made me feel like I couldn't hate her for raping me and assaulting me because now shes standing up for me so if I hate her I would be a bad person even tho I know I am not a bad person for hating her because I have every right to because of what she did to me even if it was a long time anyways I think that's it sorry again that this is super long I don't know what others look like so I don't know if mines actually long or not compared to other peoples but if you read all of this thank you for reading my story and I hope all of you have an absolutely amazing 💗💗💗

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    #1766

    #1766
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    I am not Powerless

    This isn’t about one incident but it’s happened so many times and how it’s android me feel. Today was hard for me my car battery died and I needed help, my youngest daughter crossed my boundaries again, and my ex did as he was supposed to helping me. I felt so ganged up in today as if I was being bullied. It seems as I sat here in my bed trying to process the day and feel what I’m feeling it hit me that it feels like hoe it feels to be raped, which is strange but almost everything seems to remind me of it. I have someone I care very much for but he goes silent on me and we don’t talk for a while and then he comes back like it’s all fine but it’s not. His silence triggers me greatly to a point where I get so triggered I couldn’t control it. I suppose i didn’t realize it was mimicking the silent treatment. My ex today when the car battery died I called a few people to help and finally got my sister. My ex forgot his jumper cables and I asked him to ask some people in the parking lot and he got mad and then went in the store and came out and said your gonna owe me for this in a frustrating loud tone. He wasn’t yelling but it felt like yelling and hurt my feelings I wanted to cry. He told me he has jumper cables and if he had to buy them I was gonna owe him. As I’m writing this parts of me feel like a fool or at least think I am for asking him for help. When I was 18 when got married when I was 17, he told me if I didn’t have sex with him he would rape me and well I was tired and said no I also had a headache which I just remembered and he did it. I am in Emdr therapy processing what happened and the memories are started to slowly surface. But also there are other incidents that happened that are also surfacing. There are parts I remember such as the man with glasses on top of me and Everytime I see the town mayor my stomach turns in knots. He was around me when I was little and the resemblance is so similar but I don’t know if it was him for sure and maybe I never will. My mom let men touch me and pushed guys onto to my ex. I never known in the way I should and I don’t really care for having sex. I’ve been healing and working through all this but in some ways I’m afraid of everything and anything can trigger those feelings again like today when my ex said I would owe him. I haven’t been feeling well and have been needing some help and I suppose I was isolated so much of my life I don’t have a support system. I don’t have family or friends to go too and anytime I try new support groups no one shows up and they can be too far to drive. My youngest daughter has bdp and well it’s hard to be around her and she constantly crosses any boundaries I have which seems to be a running theme in my life. If anything today showed me I was able to control my emotions without expressing them to the people that hurt me, I came back and journaled and ate chicken noodle soup, and took a hot shower to help with the somatic pains surfacing in my body and now I’m under the blanket holding a pillow writing this story. I’m not powerless I never was I’ve just been around crappy people my whole life and I will always have been raped and sexually abused but it doesn’t have to define me.

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    Surviving Gang Rape

    Last year I was gang raped. I have an ear ringing called tinnitus that has not stopped since. I have nightmares. I flew with my mom to a wedding overseas. I was excited. She would be busy with her friends and cousin and I would get to spend time with my awesome second cousin who is two years older than me. After the rehearsal dinner we went out. It was fun because I was not legally able to drink there even though the age was lower than in my province, but they did not check ID’s. I did not drink much because it was not my thing and I had a boyfriend but I was able to go to some bars then a club attached to a hotel. So much fun up to when we met two soldiers in uniform who were cute and separated us from her friends because of our looks. My cousin is stunning beautiful. They had a private room at the club and several soldiers were there and two prostitutes also. Those prostitutes definitely hated us being there. I wanted to get out anyway and the cute ones that invited us acted like they understood and took us out of there. We stupidly let them take us to their hotel room where they totally dropped the cute romantic act and made us strip our clothes to music. They showed us a gun they had in a drawer. I was terrified. They made us lay on our stomachs bent over the bed side by side and had sex with us that way. They switched like we were interchangeable before finishing in us with no protection. We held hands. I was crying while my cousin was trying to be strong and cheer me up. We weren’t allowed to leave and our clothes were hidden. Before took our phones we had to text that we were staying at my cousin’s friend’s house. Then they called two other soldiers, one of them a huge tall dark guy with body builder muscles. He was the worst to me. They made us dance and then we had to use our mouths on the cute ones that had lured us there while the other two had sex with us. I vomited and my cousin cleaned it up but then it started again. They had cocaine and made us sniff it off their parts and sniffed it off us. Another one came and I think it was just those five during the night but they kept raping us and making us do things even when we would pass out. I would like to have been more unconscious but cocaine makes you so awake. I want to remember less and think about it all less. We showered many times. The big dark one peed on me and in my mouth the shower. He did it more than once like I was his toilet. The other men even had to tell him to chill out when he was making me scream liking his fingers and pushing them in my arse, but not when he made me crawl around like a dog using my hair as a leash. I remember one of them calling their friends to tell them to turn all their t.v.’s way up to hide the noise in our room. They watched sports news on the t.v. They had me and my cousin kiss each other and stuff. I could not act like it was a fun party like my cousin did sometimes and encouraged me to do. She tried to take some of their attention away from me over and over. I love her for it but they did not leave me alone. My chest is something they were obsessed with. They did not care that I was obviously distressed and freaking out or that in my country I was three years below the age of consent. There I was the minimum. We woke up in the morning on one the beds together with only the two soldiers sleeping on the floor. The black one was gone! They had sex with us again and another man who was much older and who they called SIR came in and had sex with both us but mostly me. They cheered him on and my head was pounding and I was crying and it seemed to last forever. Finally we got our clothes back but they took us for brunch wearing their normal clothes. They showed me pictures on their phones that made it look like I was having fun and warned us how bad it would be if we said anything different than we had a nice party. A nice party in hell! Before that I’d had sex with only my 1 boyfriend ever. One night of hell and now my number was seven!! We had to start getting ready for the wedding right away and I was exhausted. My cousin hid me and I took a nap in my dress, hair and makeup until the last minute. I cried in the ceremony but not for the wedding. I was so sore in my vagina, muscles, and brain that I got so drunk at the reception I barely remember any of it. Just part of being on the plane home. I told my mom the truth when I got back and she got all crazy, so did my dad, and they tried to call over there and the hotel and such but there was nothing the police would do. I saw my dad cry for the first time as I told the whole story. My boyfriend could not handle it and dumped me. I go to group and do therapy. I take a pill everyday and now benzo’s for break through anxiety. I try to hide my large chest under baggy clothes where before I used it for attention. STUPID! My cousin does not seem to have the trauma I do or the nightmares. In her country they are done with secondary school up to two years before us and are more treated like adults sooner. I said mean things to her once because of it. She forgave me but we talk much less since I asked if she has gang bangs all the time. I felt terrible because she even let them have anal sex with her to lure them away from me. I could tell it hurt her so much but at the time was just thinking about my own survival. My childhood is OVER but I do not feel like an adult. Her advice is -Don’t let it get you so down-. Like I have a choice in this!! She went to a therapist ONCE because her mom made the appointment and does not plan to go back. Her life did not really change!! She works reception at a tech company and models on the side and still goes to parties and clubs and dates. How??? It is unbelievable how attitudes toward something like this can be so different in different countries. I am a victim now and I usually feel like it. Definitely damaged. Everybody at my school knows why. I am THAT girl. My new more mature boyfriend is understanding but I feel like a sad little burden to him. I am hypersexual sometimes now and can’t help it. It is a coping mechanism that happens to some victims of sexual assault. I did not ask for it. I worry my boyfriend can’t trust me because of it. I had an older guy friend who’s been my neighbor for years take advantage of me after I told him the story of what happened at his house. We had sex and then he felt guilty for being turned on by my rape story. He admitted it and asked me to forgive him. The sex helped me calm the ear ringing for just short time periods so I did it with him more than once a day for a bit until my dad started to suspect something and talked to him. Since then I don’t trust myself. I want to marry my boyfriend in large part just to protect myself and show him I love him and am loyal even though I am not sure I can be. I worry I cannot love like a normal person. I worry I push him away being too needy and wanting to marry him so soon. I need him more than he needs me. Is that the way it will always be in relationships for rape victims??? I work hard at school not to ruin my future. It is so hard to focus. My ears ring constantly. Thank you for listening.

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    #11

    I tried to kiss my girlfriend at the end of our second date, and something was wrong. She flinched. She moved. No, she backed away. Then later, she told me about how she had been attacked by a man two years ago and hadn’t been intimate with anyone since. So what now. She went through something I would never understand. I do not understand. How can you go inside her, feel that level of connection, and want her—knowing she was tied down against her will, and tortured for hours with foreign objects, starting and finishing with physical abuse. She will not say out-loud the source. But I now know she still carries scars on her skin and damage to her internal organs. With bravery I will never understand. The power of her story was second only to the power of her choosing to share that story with me. Since that day I have tried to make good on that trust and make her feel safe and enrich her life, however I am able. It does not come close to the insight she has given me. Now, my partner continues to show signs of the trauma almost every day- Yet it is not even close to the first thing that comes to mind when I think of her. She is one of the gentlest and most thoughtful woman I have been lucky enough to meet. Sometimes her teacher voice comes out, when I have misunderstood her directions or done something wrong—and honestly I don’t mind it in the slightest, because I truly consider this confidence an extension of her desire to resolve conflict through positive emotions. This is no damn small feat, considering what she’s been through. I sometimes think about the man that attacked her. I hate him. I do not know his name or what he looks like. And I am not sure what I’d do if I did. But ultimately it’s not for me to decide. She has forgiven him and so must I. She is kinder and more patient than this world deserves. I am proud to know her and proud to love her.

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  • Every step forward, no matter how small, is still a step forwards. Take all the time you need taking those steps.

    If you are reading this, you have survived 100% of your worst days. You’re doing great.

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    COCSA: Can a victim be older than their perpetrator?

    When I was 12/13 and my brother was 9ish, he started to grope me. At first it was just quick grabs of my breasts or ass. But he started to get more confident and began groping and squeezing for longer and longer periods of time and doing it more frequently. Eventually he started grabbing/cupping my vulva through my clothes. I was a bit bigger than him and could successfully fight him off, but I was not allowed to. My parents knew what was happening and he often did stuff like this in front of them. They ignored it and acted like it wasn't happening. He never got in trouble for it. They would only tell him to stop in the moment if there was a guest over or I was begging them to momentarily intervene. But if I pushed him, hit him, or even just yelled at him to stop, I got in trouble with my parents. I cried and begged my parents for months to talk to him and make him stop, but they never did. I was constantly choosing between letting my own brother touch me and getting punished by my parents for self-defense. It was agony. This probably went on for 9 months. I don't know if I'm really a victim of abuse or anything. My brother was younger than me and smaller than me. In COCSA cases, it's almost always an older abuser and a younger victim. That's not my situation. He knew touching me was wrong, but he didn't have a complete understanding of consent and sex. But, he was old enough to understand "no" and me crying. As his older sister, I feel like I also have a responsibility towards him and that I should have done more in that situation. But how could I? My parents didn't help me and I was punished for protecting myself.

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    Message of Hope
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    You can live a good life despite hard things happening

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  • “You are not broken; you are not disgusting or unworthy; you are not unlovable; you are wonderful, strong, and worthy.”

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    Name's Death

    Name's Death When I was younger--18,19,20. I babysat your kid. You’d come home super drunk with your wife. I remember my heart beating so fast and my hands sweating right before you’d walk in the front door--afraid for what was to come. You’d greet me with a kiss on the cheek while you took a selfie of us. You’d want a hug when you were in your boxers. You’d walk me home at 2 am with your arm around me, making sure I got home safely, when I really needed protection from you. One time you hugged me and threw me on to your bed, but that was just one time. My mom and others always said it “almost” crossed the line. I still wonder what would it have taken to cross the line--rape? I wanted my parents to protect me but the protection never came. I continued to babysit for your family--for another couple of years.It’s like I needed a blessing from someone to finally get me to stop, Tell me it was enough, He’d crossed your line. It wasn’t your fault. A couple of days ago, you died. The neighborhood praised you--and still does. You were Name--the unofficial mayor of our neighborhood who got so many things done. All I hear is that it’s ok to sexually harass women --it’s okay because you had power and status. I’m mad, confused, frustrated, ashamed, and embarrassed. I can’t out you anymore, can’t write the open letter to the community because you are dead and people become angels when they die. In a community that I loved so much, I love it less now.

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  • “It can be really difficult to ask for help when you are struggling. Healing is a huge weight to bear, but you do not need to bear it on your own.”

    “To anyone facing something similar, you are not alone. You are worth so much and are loved by so many. You are so much stronger than you realize.”

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    The body remembers

    The body remembers trauma. I didn’t know this until I experienced it myself. After a fun and rambunctious night with my husband (now ex) I woke up the next morning feeling particularly sore. As I sat on the toilet I realized that this soreness was something I had felt before. I then had a flashback from my sophomore year in college. When I woke up groggy after a night of partying with my soccer teammates. I headed to the bathroom. As I peed I felt that sore and ache-y feeling. I didn’t know what it was and wrote it off as cramps and hangover. I remember looking in the mirror and seeing that I wasn’t wearing my pajamas. Just a random top and shorts. When I got back to my dorm room my then boyfriend was just waking up. And that was the end of my flashback. I then realized my sexual history was a lie. I thought I had lost my virginity to my husband and he was my first and only partner. But this changed everything. I lost my virginity to my boyfriend who raped me and I had no idea. My sexual narrative and my identity changed in my late 30's because of this revelation. Who am I? What does this mean? Bits and pieces from the night returned. I know we drank a lot. I know he walked me home. Thats all I can remember because I blacked out. Is it better that I blacked out? That I cant remember the horrible thing done to me? I don't know. I just feel a bit lost and scared for the 19 year old me who was young and naive. She didn't know what to do. Now in my early 40's divorced and a single parent I'm healing the wounds that were invisible and hiding for so long. Im listening to my body now. And I'm going to nourish it.

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    It Started with my Brother

    I was used by my brother who has grown up a lot but I still carry scars. My brother is four years older than me and when I was going from elementary school to Junior high, that summer, he made me think that girls in junior high need to know how to give oral to boys. First he did oral to me to show me it was not a big deal. I thought it was a huge deal. But I did it and he got me trained and had me keep it a secret, except from by best friend. He had his friend over when I had a sleepover one night and had her do it to his friend. Then they would have us do contests where they wear blindfolds. At least I was not alone then. It changed me even though seventh grade itself had nothing to do with anything like that. It was a lie to get pleasure from me. My brother still had me doing it at home. And sometimes he would do it to me and I did climax. So I had this weird secret sex life and felt really messed up about it. Then in eight grade I had my first real boyfriend. My parents are so strict, even though they both worked and left me alone with my brother. To go to the movies with my boyfriend they made sure it was with a group and took me there and waited outside the theater. Well one time when we went to see Snow White and the Huntsman my same BFF and me went through with our plan to go down on our guys in the last row of the theater and we did it. It was only a month later I started having sex with him which never would have happened if not for what my brother had done. We snuck out from her place during a sleepover and met the boys outside and went to the nearby park and did it in the grass. That was my virginity. The really bad event, where my life got knocked off the tracks, is when we tried it from my house, sneaking out the window and going just out farther into my big back yard that opened into nothing but the side of a big hill and my dad caught us. It was awful. The world ended. I was treated like a huge betrayer and almost all my privileges were revoked and essentially I was grounded without any end date. And still by brother would make me do the oral. I was broken hearted because I was not allowed to have my boyfriend to the point my parents made me go to the school and talk to the principal and vice principal and they made sure I would not have any chance to ever see him alone. And my brother kept creeping in at night sometimes or when we were left alone expecting me to do what he had trained me to be used to. The next really bad part was two months into my new restricted life. My brother started doing his oral on me one afternoon after school and decided to take it farther and got up and started kissing me and had sex with me. I was in the moment and did not do anything to stop him and even participated. No condom. It was an afternoon when my parents were away and so we did not have to keep quiet or worry and he did it so much longer than my few times with my boyfriend, because he was older and knew more from being with other girls that I got sore for my first time and got a urine infection. I did not eat my dinner that night and pretended to be sick and cried myself to sleep. My brother really wanted to do it again, telling me it was the best sex he ever had, but I refused and one thing I could say for him back then was at least he was not a rapist. Even though he pressured me he never tried to force himself inside me. Four months after I had lost my incest virginity the school year ended and he graduated. I went to high school and he moved out to live in college dorms 120 miles from our home town. Public school was over for me, as was planned as soon as my dad caught me on the hill. I went to an all girl’s Catholic high school. My dad had to drive me a half hour every morning and my mom picked me up from my whole first year. Then they got me a car so I could drive myself but the mileage and my times were closely monitored. I did not have an intercourse throughout high school but seven times total I did oral on my brother during summer and winter breaks when we were both at home. That was the end of incest in my life. I went to college in Atlanta but not the same one as my brother. I rebelled against my parents and even though they tried to keep control, as a legal adult I did not let them. Turmoil and sadness lasted months until they finally got it. I separated from them financial and worked and took out student loans. I was very promiscuous in college. I drank, partied and used drugs recreationally and had several guys I was seeing on and off for mostly sex. That was my life and I thought I enjoyed it at the time. I became stronger and more assertive and when my brother first hinted during a Thanksgiving meeting at our relative’s house that we go for a drive I told him I never wanted to touch him again in such a powerful way that he knew I was off limits and even seemed like the scared one in our relationship. I didn’t enroll in classes for two nonconsecutive semester just because my party life was so much more fun. I traveled on and off. Sometimes with friends, sometimes with men, usually older, who invited me to exotic places. The Maldives, Portugal, The Virgin Islands. I let my married boss use me for a weekend in Key West. I had an affair with my Spanish teacher, who only took me as far as Panama City, Florida. So many risky one night stands. My identity was that I was not looking for anything permanent, a child of the universe. While I was used as a plaything so many times and believed I liked the game. I would tell them things about wanting to make their dick happy and stuff that would inflate their ego. I’m sure there are so many text messages out there that they saved about the size of their D fitting in my little P, about being a little girl wanting them to teach me to be woman and other depraved fantasies I thought they wanted to hear. Obviously directly related to what my brother did to me. I am almost positive I avoided being raped more than once by going with the flow when I did not expect to or probably want to. It may be good that some of them I probably don’t remember. Once was at one of the few fraternity parties I ever went to. It was three guys, not my usual style. Once was with my roommate's father who was visiting her at our rented house and found his way to my bed in the early morning. One of the more extreme traumatic events was with a police officer who pulled me over for driving when I had been drinking but was under the legal limit on his breathalyzer. He followed me home, like a mile away, “for my safety” and even followed me inside. I was in an apartment then and I thought my roomate was home and told him so. But when she wasn’t there he said I lied to a police officer and he had to do a more thorough search if I wanted to avoid being arrested. He was not attractive or nice. He had a gun thought he never took it out. You can guess what happened. I finally shed that wild life during my second to last semester when I saw the end of college coming. My G.P.A was 3.3. and my major was philosophy and it dawned on me that the future was not bright in terms of what I would do or how I would pay back my loans. I buckled down and decided to change. I had an offer to strip and ‘make a lot of money’ but thankfully not only did never considered myself like that, but when I went with a friend for her interview and they tried to recruit me they were so sleazy we both ran out of there disgusted. I reevaluated my whole life. I considered ending it, but some survival mechanism did not allow it. I did not want to be the person I had been for a few years. I looked ahead and saw it was not sustainable as I aged and had no real love or stability. I quit serving when I got an offer to work in a legal office. I slept with the manager who hired me as a receptionist but it was a drop in the bucket of things to be shameful of. He was the last one like that. I got all A’s and graduated cum laude. I got promoted in the firm mostly by title but used it to spring away and take a lower paying job in a nonprofit law firm where I had not slept with anyone. There I did sleep with a lawyer but I am married to him still and my life is back together. I love him and he loves me. He does not know the extent of my sluttiness in college or about my brother and I doubt he ever will. That darkness is fading and it is not part of my life now. It is not who I am. As for my brother, he has a family now and we are on good terms. We did talk about it once while I was studying like crazy my senior year, although it was not a big deep talk. I did mention that he used me, he apologized, we hugged, and that was it. Not the cathartic confrontation some might expect. My catharsis is my husband, and my life now that I am grateful for. We adopted two toddler brothers and I am their mom. Maybe we’ll have one of our own. Maybe we’ll adopt again. I was used and introduced to sex too young and early and it strained my relationship with my parents for a long time and I’ll never get that back. It derailed my life. I was set adrift for a while but God or the universe or random luck finally put me in a good place. Everything that happened led me what I have now. I can’t say I never contemplated suicide in darker times. But like in the move Cast Away, if I may quote, “I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail. And now, here I am.” Thousands of hours spent studying philosophy and I quote a movie that was not even based on a book. But it’s perfect.

    Dear reader, this story contains language of self-harm that some may find triggering or discomforting.

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    #2

    I remember waking up that October morning and having no idea whose living room I was in. But I wasn’t panicked, just confused. Things like this, sad to say, have happened to me in the past. Go to a party, get too drunk, and brown out most of the night and wake up in an unfamiliar place. But usually I was around other friends. But this was different. I sat up on the couch and feverishly began looking for my phone for some sort of glimmer of hope that I had not been so irresponsible to have lost my phone, on top of my dignity. There, already blaming myself. I quickly found my phone by my side and had multiple missed texts from my roommate and from two of my good friends. “Where are you?”.. “Are you okay?”.. So what happened? Someone stumbles into the living room at this time, someone that I still to this day honestly don’t know the name of. Immediately, graphic flash backs of the activities that occurred on the couch came rushing back. The couch that I sat on now. Quickly, I realized I needed to get out of this apartment. There in front of me stood a brolic, 6-foot something Caucasian male smiling, in far less distress than I was. By nature, I never want others to feel uncomfortable, even if that puts me in a position of feeling more uncomfortable. I always choose to save others before myself, it’s a character flaw that I actively am trying to work on. But even on this day, as vulnerable as I felt, I decided to continue to entertain this stranger who decided to take advantage of a far too drunk girl at a party. So I thought. I stayed at the apartment and made small talk, about what, who knows? I was too busy trying to act like I wasn’t the most uncomfortable person in the world. After about an hour of conversation, I requested that the man take me back to my car which was at the house were the party was the previous night. He agreed. When I reached my car, I quickly said goodbye, rushed inside, and called a close friend. She picked up the phone immediately saying “hey girl, are you okay?”. “Yeah, I’m fine. But I don’t remember much of last night. Did you have a good night?” I answered … as the conversation went on things began to make a bit more sense. My friend said she had also blacked out the entirety of the night. But here was his mistake: She had only had one drink, a few sips of one she was sharing with me. She was the driver. Staying sober for a handful of people. Then after this drink, her boyfriend was carrying her to the car because she became too incoherent to be at the party. Two male friends and her boyfriend knew something was wrong. She knew something was wrong. Her boyfriend told me later on that as they carried her into the apartment, she half-consciously tried to push out of their arms. Attempting to fall onto pavement over being carried inside. Resenting any form of touch. She quietly pleaded, ‘I have been drugged. Please do not touch me. Please do not do this’, again up the steps, through the door, as they tried to take her shoes off. Kicking while unable to keep her eyes open. Knowing enough, but not enough to know these men were there to keep her safe. And suddenly, I realized it was that man, the man who stood in that living room that morning who had given me the drink. What if one of us had taken that dose on our own. I proceeded to share the news with my friend and I decided to be drug tested for the both of us. Positive. I have no more details on my own night. The rest is left up to your imagination. I felt dirty, ashamed, angry, but most of all embarrassed. What had I done the night before in front of my classmates and peers, that I respected and that respected me. There were many feelings involved with this event that I chose to let go of and to just let the event be a thing of the past. This incident impacted the amount that I attended parties while in school and certainly made me more conscious of my surrounding when I did go out. I relied on the counsel of my friends to provide me with support for the amount of shame and indignity I felt over the following few weeks that turned into months. I strongly believe it is because of these friends that I was able to continue after this event with a stronger mind. This support system. Today, I seldom think of the event. It happened, I learned from it, and I have grown since. I am a true believer that you should only invest your energy in things that help you grow and for that fact I choose not to let this day impact me at this point. Today, I am in a healthy, happy new relationship and choose not to be held back by this one night’s events. I am still in control of my own damn life.

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  • Message of Healing
    From a survivor
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    Healing was learning. I was not broken and I was worthy of love and somehow found the light at the end of a very dark tunnel....

    Dear reader, this message contains language of self-harm that some may find triggering or discomforting.

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  • Story
    From a survivor
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    "Terror in the Stillness of the Night"

    “THE TERROR IN THE STILLNESS OF THE NIGHT” Warning: This article contains references to childhood sexual abuse By Name Insomnia first started to rear its ugly head in my life when I was in the second grade. Each evening after I was sent to bed, I lay awake long into the night with a pounding heart and a body paralyzed with terror as I pictured a monkey-like man with an axe in his head flying through the window over my bed coming to kill me. I have no idea where that terrifying image came from, but that scene played over and over in my head long into the night until I finally felt the sweet release of sleep overtake me. And even when sleep rescued me from these terrifying images, that didn’t guarantee that the fear would stop. Several times a week I would be violently awoken from nightmares that left me with a racing heart and terror running through my body. I was also a sleepwalker. Often in the mornings Mom would laughingly tell me she found me wandering around the house late at night while still asleep. I never remembered those nocturnal wanderings the next day, nor did I understand what they were. But Mom sure thought they were funny. At that time my mother was married to her third husband, an abusive pedophile named 3rd Husband. I did not have a good childhood. From as far back as I can remember, I was verbally, sexually and physically abused by my mother and the various sick men she brought into our lives. My mother had many relationships when I was growing up, some boyfriends, some husbands. By the time I was nine years old, there were six “father” figures in my life, almost all of them abusive. We moved often. It was a lonely and terrifying childhood. When I was nine years old, my mother married her fourth husband, a truck driver named 4th Husband, a man she had only known for two weeks. After they got married, that’s when the insomnia went from bad to worse. 4th Husband was also a pedophile. I was born in the mid ‘60s. Other than the abuse I suffered at home, I lived a relatively sheltered life. It would be many long years before computers, the internet or cell phones came into existence. Our TV had only four channels, and each show was heavily censored. Other than occasional kissing, not once did I witness people in bed having any kind of sexual activity. My sex education came from personal experience, the abuse I suffered at home. Shortly after Mom and 4th Husband got married, we moved from California back to Wisconsin where I was born. During the drive back to Wisconsin, we stayed in motels, my older brother and I in one bed, Mom and 4th Husband in the other. Being a light sleeper, one night I woke in the middle of the night to strange sounds in the bed next to us. “Harder, Honey, Harder,” Mom moaned as 4th Husband moved on top of her. Mom and 4th Husband were having sex in the bed next to us. Even though I had witnessed my mother having sex many times over the years, it still shocked me to my very core as I watched them through the sliver of light peeking through the curtains. I was utterly sickened at the sight and sound of their lovemaking. And with each moan of pleasure, my stomach got more and more nauseated. Finally, I turned over, pulled my knees to my chest to soothe the sickness in my stomach and cried silent tears into my pillow. I didn’t sleep a wink the rest of that long night. After we moved to Wisconsin, Mom and 4th Husband brought me into their bed and started sexually abusing me. Each evening when I was sent to bed for the night, I lay in bed for hours waiting for the sweet relief of sleep to overtake me and rescue me from the night terrors. Thankfully the monkey-like man with an ax flying through my window had been left behind when we moved, only to be replaced by another terror, and that was waiting for Mom and 4th Husband to come upstairs to go to bed. I never knew if they were going to bring me into their room and abuse me or go straight to their room for the night. Even though I was exhausted mentally and physically from lack of sleep, my poor body refused to relax as my tortured mind raced with every what-if scenario that could happen. Often I was still awake when Mom and 4th Husband went to bed. The nights that they went to their room, I knew it wouldn’t be long before they would start having sex. As soon as I heard their muffled voices and their moans of pleasure, terror filled my body and tears of sadness flowed from my eyes as I flashed back to that motel room. I was utterly sickened knowing what they were doing. Even when they were done and had gone to sleep, I still couldn’t get the sounds of their lovemaking out of my head. Long into the night I lay in my darkened room staring fearfully into the suffocating darkness. Sometimes a car went by, a plane flew overhead or a dog barked, but other than that, it was quiet. The stillness of the night was terrifying to me. As the years passed, the insomnia got worse. Without realizing it, somewhere along the way, sleep had become a faceless monster that dominated my life. All through the rest of grade school, middle school and high school, I rarely got a good nights’ sleep. I went through my days in a shroud of exhaustion, and my poor head just ached from lack of sleep. Each evening, instead of finding comfort and solace at the thought of a refreshing nights’ rest, all I felt was a growing dread the closer it got to bedtime. And the nightmares continued to haunt me. It seemed I could never escape the terror of my life. When I graduated from high school, I went on to college. Even though none of my family went on to get a higher education, I knew that was my ticket out of a life of relying on other people. Most of the adults I had grown up with had let me down and brought me nothing but pain. I had learned that the only person I could rely on was myself. And for that I needed an education. But when I left my home, as much as I wanted to leave the pain of my past behind me, the insomnia continued to haunt me night after night. Rarely did I get a full nights’ sleep. Often I lay awake for hours in my darkened room tossing and turning with a racing mind wondering when or if I would be able to sleep and worrying how I would get through the next day if I didn’t get enough rest. It was a vicious cycle. I had started drinking when I was 14 years old as a means to alleviate the intense pain I suffered at home. Drinking helped relax me and brought me some measure of happiness, however fleeting. Sometimes I was even able to laugh, which was something that was sorely lacking in my life. If I could have spent every waking moment of my childhood in an altered state, I would have, but liquor was hard to come by since I was underage. By the time I graduated from college, I had become a full-blown functioning alcoholic. Almost every night I got blackout drunk in an effort to relax my body enough to sleep. Rarely did that work, but I kept trying. The hangovers the next day were always brutal and made the pain in my head even worse. But those few hours that I drank each evening helped me to relax and gave me some measure of happiness, however fleeting. I tried many things to try to get rest, sleeping pills, herbal remedies, over-the-counter sleep aids, praying, pleading with God for sleep, prescription pills, muscle relaxers, Nyqil, Benadryl, massage therapy, hypnotherapy, acupuncture, counseling, meditation, deep breathing techniques. I tried it all. I was desperate for rest. Often I would stagger sleeping pills, taking some before bed, then more when I woke up a few hours later. Unfortunately, as much as I tried, nothing took away that nighttime monster that I had dealt with since I was in second grade. Two hours, three hours, four hours, six hours or maybe even seven on a rare night. I was in absolute misery. It never once occurred to me that the abuse I had suffered as a child had affected me. Once I left my home, I did everything in my power to leave the various monsters of my past behind. I rarely thought about my childhood. Thinking about my past was akin to putting my hand on a hot stove. It was that painful. Unfortunately, those monsters followed me into adulthood. Each morning when I woke up from a night of restless sleep, my thoughts turned obsessively to how I could get enough rest the next night. And those thoughts dominated almost every waking moment. I was desperate for relief but had no idea how to make that happen. And the sleepless nights and the head pain worsened the depression that I had suffered since early childhood. Most days I just prayed for an early death to escape the mental and physical pain I was in. On my worst days my mind just spun on a hamster wheel of suicidal thoughts, anything to escape the pain. Shortly before my 26th birthday I got married. A few years later my husband and I started a family. And when I was pregnant, I slept like a baby. Each time I lay my head down on my pillow, my body relaxed in a way that was foreign to me. It felt like a warm and comforting blanket had magically descended on my nervous system, and I slept like a baby. I just couldn’t get enough of that amazing, nourishing sleep. But as soon as each of my children were born, the insomnia returned. Raising my family, working a demanding career, marriage, and the stressors of daily life with little sleep left me depleted mentally and physically. The only thing that powered me through those difficult days was the immense amount of adrenaline that sizzled through my veins. As the years passed and my children grew older, sleep issues continued to haunt me. My friends that slept well didn’t understand what I was going through. Some even laughed at my struggles. “What’s wrong with you? I sleep like a baby!” said one friend, “Nope, not me, I never have problems sleeping!” laughed another. Finally, I learned to keep my mouth. It was just too painful to be laughed at over something that I couldn’t control. Each morning, even though I was exhausted, in pain and depressed, I put on a fake smile and powered through my day the best I could. In my early 50s I finally started to confront my childhood. At that time I started writing a book about what I went through. As the memories came back and the painful words spilled onto the paper, I couldn’t help but shake my head in grief and shock over what I had endured as a child. But one of the things that shocked me the most was how young I was when insomnia first entered my life. Shortly after I started to confront my childhood, I was diagnosed with C-PTSD due to years of childhood trauma. At that time, I also lost my 30- plus career as a court reporter due to the severe sleep issues and the daily migraines. I could no longer handle the demands of my stressful career. My body simply gave out. I was absolutely devastated when I could no longer return to my career that I had worked so hard for. Once I got the diagnosis of C-PTSD, I have worked hard to heal myself from my past. I have listened to and read everything at my disposal that will aid in my healing. To say I am motivated is an understatement. All I have ever wanted was to feel good, mentally and physically, and that is something I have rarely felt in my life. At the time of this writing, I am finally starting to confront the insomnia. Without realizing it, deep down I felt insomnia was a life sentence. My mother has insomnia, as did her mother. I have no idea how far back in my family’s history the inability to sleep goes. I grew up hearing on a daily basis how exhausted and miserable my mother was. I believe along with the trauma I suffered as a child, somewhere along the way that seed of ancestral insomnia was planted in me early on and grew as the years passed. I have confronted so many of the fears in my life since I have started my journey of healing from the past. And almost all of those fears stem from the trauma that I suffered in my childhood. I am bound and determined to conquer insomnia. Working to make my bedtime routine as peaceful as possible has been huge. Meditation and gentle stretching really work to calm my nervous system. But if I skip the evening meditation and stretching, I don’t stress about it. Now that I understand what created this years’ long monster of sleepless nights, I am slowly releasing the many fears that created it and have kept me captive for the past 52 years. It is a process undoing the years and years of trauma. When I go to bed now, I make sure I am ready, meaning that I am tired. No longer do I lay in bed for hours trying to force sleep and worrying how I will feel the next day if I don’t get rest. If I can’t fall asleep, I read a good book or watch a happy movie, anything that calms my nervous system. But the biggest thing I am learning is not to worry what the next day will look like if I don’t get enough rest. Releasing the fear has been life changing.

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    Beauty from Ashes

    The month of April is Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention month. My Never Quit Story began over a decade ago while I was serving on active duty overseas. It was a cold winter night with snow on the ground and at the time, a ‘normal’ evening spent with friends that mirrored all the others previously. But it would become the night that would change my life forever. A part of me died that night. In the course of the evening, I was drugged, raped, and the stranger responsible also attempted to silence me forever, but somehow, for some reason, I survived. Sometime afterwards, I began sinking into a dark hole, abusing alcohol, trying to bury the memories. I locked that night away into my soul, I tried running from it, but it began to consume my life. Until one day, almost a decade after, a flash of memories hit me head-on. It felt as if someone took a baseball bat and shattered the glass I had built around that night into a million pieces. I completely broke down, and as if it had been divinely planned, there were three women present that told me of a program of therapy at the VA specifically for veterans that had been sexually assaulted. I came to learn that Military Sexual Trauma (MST) was an actual diagnosis. The day I walked into the mental health department at the VA is THE DAY my journey of healing began. A psychologist picked me as her patient, and we started Prolonged Exposure Therapy. For me, this was the most difficult thing I had ever done. Prolonged Exposure therapy was developed by Edna Foa, PhD, Director of the Center for the Treatment and Study of Anxiety. Treatment is approximately 12-15 sessions, one session per week and 90 minutes per session. The American Psychological Association defines Prolonged Exposure therapy as follows: • “Imaginal exposure occurs in session with the patient describing the event in detail in the present tense with guidance from the therapist. Together, patient and therapist discuss and process the emotion raised by the imaginal exposure in session. The patient is recorded while describing the event so that she or he can listen to the recording between sessions, further process the emotions and practice the breathing techniques. • In vivo exposure, that is confronting feared stimuli outside of therapy, is assigned as homework. The therapist and patient together identify a range of possible stimuli and situations connected to the traumatic fear, such as specific places or people. They agree on which stimuli to confront as part of in vivo exposure and devise a plan to do so between sessions. The patient is encouraged to challenge him or herself but to do so in a graduated fashion so as to experience some success in confronting feared stimuli and coping with the associated emotion”. So, in my own words, I sat in a non-descript room with my therapist and while clutching my teddy bear, I began recording the events of that night over and over and nauseatingly over again. It was disgusting, gut-wrenching, exhausting hard work! Most times, I would be drenched in sweat, extremely nauseous, always sobbing, confronting so many emotions and my stomach never failed to make horrible sounds. It seemed to me as if the trauma, pain, memories, and emotions were living and warring in my stomach. Re-living the trauma was extremely depleting and I never left her office without feeling I had fought a battle. My homework after each appointment was to listen to my recorded sessions. Hearing my voice for the first time telling the story was completely heartbreaking. It was if I were listening to a stranger tell the darkest and most evil tale. And each time I listened to those tapes, the nausea, the grief and the pain would wash over me. The word ‘why’ became a normal component of my everyday language. But the most intense part of this battle for me was about to begin. Living alone, my family living in other states and no friends or companion, I confronted the past head-on and determined to finish it. One day as I was sitting in my therapist’s office she told me that some patients with combat trauma and victims of rape experience a visceral hatred of God. In the darkest and most vulnerable experiences, where is God? That was my question. Although I had been raised in church my entire life and I believed in God, I carried a fear of Him and the belief that as long as I was a good person nothing bad would happen to me. As my treatment continued, I began to discover that within the deep recesses of my soul festered a bitterness toward God. This bitterness consumed me. I began to question why He could let this happen and why He could perform so many miracles and yet (I felt) abandon me when I needed Him the most. By this point, the screams in my mind became louder, the depression pulling me down into some dark abyss and despair choked the pin-point light of hope. My wrestling with God had begun and I was determined to find answers. This is not a fairytale story; it is an ugly, gut-wrenching fight to Never Quit. During my journey over the past several years, I have found peace with God, but it has not been easy. I have come to realize, that for me, God had been present with me that dark night, during the event, and during the therapy. He was there with me in every therapy session and the ultimate goal was to have “beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that I might be called a tree of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that God might be glorified” (Isaiah, 61:3). How do I equate that evil event evolving into beauty from ashes? Well, it took almost two years to accept. I began to realize God was slowly, and ever so painstakingly, healing those deep wounds created by the trauma, grief, and pain one layer at a time, a broken piece at a time. My daughter told me of the ancient Japanese art of Kintsugi (“golden joinery or golden repair”). Applying the concepts of this art as an analogy, I want to share how I began to understand. Ayuda (2018), shares her definition of Kintsugi as “the Japanese art of putting broken pottery pieces back together with gold — built on the idea that in embracing flaws and imperfections, you can create an even stronger, more beautiful piece of art. Every break is unique and instead of repairing an item like new, the 400-year-old technique actually highlights the "scars" as a part of the design” (para. 2). One day while shopping with my sister-in-law at a thrift store, we found two genuine Kutani Japanese lamps and purchased them. On first sight of my lamp and on close inspection, there were tiny, extensive ‘cracks’ filled with a gold color but as I began to research, I found that these lamps are finished with real gold. I placed my lamp in my room and as the light filtered in from my window the lamp had the most beautiful golden glow I have ever seen. From far away, those miniscule lines or ‘cracks’ were not visible at all. What was most visible was the glow of the gold that filled the lines. So, for me, I have come to embrace and accept the broken pieces. Is my journey complete? No. Along the way, I have lost many dear things to my heart; BUT what I have gained has been more wonderful than I could have ever imagined. I have gained peace with God and with myself. I have found my voice. And on this side of the ‘mountain of my trauma’, I have found a purpose for the pain. So, I want to say -- THERE IS HOPE. You are not alone. There is a peace that passes all understanding. And in the darkest moments of life, when the storm rages and your heart breaks, and you are floundering in the fight; as you take labored breaths, steeling yourself to stand and face the wreckage, there is a light that awaits you. There are good plans for you and when you are ready, the broken pieces, the pain, the memories and the darkness can subside leaving strength forged by fire, mended with gold, shining a bright light into the world. Today I affirm, I am not a victim of my past, my traumatic event, nor am I the girl that I once was. Yet, with God’s mercy, I will never quit. During my therapy, my therapist gave me the nickname ‘Girl with the Sword’, paying homage to what she saw - the fighter in me. I will always be so grateful for her and for her courage and strength in walking through the pain and darkness with me. She has truly been my battle buddy in this fight. Never Quit. - Girl with the Sword.

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  • Message of Healing
    From a survivor
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    What Healing Means to Me? Healing, to me, is a profound journey that transcends the physical and touches the very core of our being. It's not just about the restoration of health but also the rejuvenation of the spirit and mind. My experience with healing is deeply intertwined with my faith and obedience to the Lord. I believe that my miraculous healing from AIDS was a direct consequence of this unwavering faith and commitment. In 2010, when I was diagnosed with HIV, my world was shaken. By 2013, it had progressed to full-blown AIDS, and medical professionals gave me mere weeks to live together. Nevertheless, it was during this darkest time that my faith shone brightest. I looked to God, placing my trust entirely in His hands. Through prayer, obedience, and unwavering belief, I found strength and hope. The Lord guided me through the valley of despair, and with His grace, I emerged healed in 2014. This healing was not only a physical miracle but a testament to the power of faith and divine intervention. It reinforced my belief that healing is holistic, encompassing mind, body, and soul. Healing means embracing faith, obeying the Lord's guidance, and finding peace and strength in His love. It is about not playing ball with past pain and embracing the divine promise of a brighter, healthier future. My healing journey has been a testament to the transformative power of faith, and I am eternally grateful for the second chance at life it has given me.

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    Havent healed yet but i pray i one day get freed

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    From a survivor
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    #1441

    I feel miserable. You gaslighted me for my clothing, my actions, most of the things I did. But why did you say you like me and love me if you don't like a lot of things about me. You tried to control me and you did. You tried to block my relationship with ppl, you acted like you supported me but the truth is you always wanted to block me. I forgave you after you hit me, pushed me, yelled at me and punishing me for nothing. We broke up several times, because you told me to but you always came back and said sorry for being jerk and wanted to get back me. I knew we were not in a healthy relationship and you had a lot of red flags. I don't know why but I thought you were being genuine when you apologized and believed in you. Every time we got back together, the problem didn't go away. I knew it. I regret and feel miserable because of my decision. I just wanted a supportive and loving relationship. Maybe I was too naive. But I'm that kind of girly who believes in love. You were being so aggressive after we broke up. The last breakup was also initiated by you. Why do you care what I'm wearing after we breakup? Why can't I wear something that I want to? You also said that it's none of your business but why did you start cursing and threatening me after you saw me? Why do I have to feel insecure and scared for walking my neighborhood? You told me that you moved closer to my house but you have to remember that I didn't ask you too. I just told you it will be great if we live close by when you told me you wanted to move closer to me. I didn't asked and begged you to come. It was your decision but why are you blaming me for moving closer? I lived in my neighborhood much longer than you but why are you acting like you were the one who lived longer? I'm scared to see your cold eyes. It feels like something has broken inside my heart or body. I cry everyday because of you. Not because I miss you. I feel sorry for myself and sad that I'm experiencing all of this situation ny myself. I'm embarrassed and ashamed to tell what I experienced even though I am a victim. Maybe it's harder for me because I'm a victim. I'm scared that pol might judge me for my wrong decisions. I'm frustrated and feel alone. I don't feel alive these days. I pretend I'm okay but I'm not. I know this will end but I want to end soon but I also know that this won't end sooner than I want.

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    Prisoner of War- Cat's Story

    The day I ran from my abuser, I felt an intense urge to turn the car around. My sister’s voice kept replaying through my head. “Catherine, keep your eyes on the road. Don’t look at your phone. Don’t stop.” For five years, I had been raped, beaten, brainwashed, stripped of my identity and isolated from my family and friends. I knew if I turned that car around, I wouldn’t survive. At first, I couldn’t do anything for myself. My sister had to remind me to brush my teeth, bathe and eat. My abuser had controlled everything, and I mean everything. From what and how much I ate to what I wore, how I spoke, and who I spoke to. I didn’t know how to live outside of him and his needs. For years, I had been operating in survival mode. Everything had centered around him, what he expected from me and what would set him off. I was constantly walking on eggshells. The day I escaped, he told me I was pregnant. The only birth control allowed was the pull-out method. Rape is a hard word for me, because I think of it as being physically held down. But he had psychological control over me. I had no agency or choice. I was to abide by his rules or there would be repercussions. Although pregnancy may have been physically impossible because my weight was around 90 pounds, I was still terrified. I was in the South. If I were pregnant, there would be little to no abortion access. Luckily, I was able to get the Plan B pill within 72 hours. In my mid-20s, I was diagnosed with HPV. My abuser had prohibited me from getting health insurance and health care. The domestic violence hotline gave me resources for health care in my sister’s area, a small town in Georgia. None of these resources would take me because I didn’t have health insurance. The only one who agreed to see me was the health department; they only tested for certain STDs and did not perform gynecological exams. Like many women who have been in my situation, I felt lost. I knew I would be going back home to New Orleans for the holidays. Fortunately, I was able to schedule an exam with Planned Parenthood. They were sensitive to my situation and provided me with information and options. Most importantly, the staff treated me like a person. Since I left, my life has gotten much better, but I’m still on edge. Daily, I have traumatic flashbacks and second-guess and dissect most things.. With holistic therapeutic modalities, I’m healing. The only time the police were called was for me to escape. I had told my abuser I was leaving. He held me hostage in a hotel room for a couple of hours to keep me from leaving. I was able to get out once the police arrived. A year and half after my escape, I called to look into pressing charges. The police had never written a report. There was only documentation of the phone call and the time they arrived and left. They told me to file my own report, which at the time of the incident I didn't know about. So, I filed my report. When I spoke to an investigator, he questioned me on why I was looking at filing charges over a year later. I told him that I had dealt with intense trauma where I couldn't even eat and bathe without being told to do so. He said that it was too late, I. didn't have enough evidence, and it would go no where. And when I called back to at least get the report I filed, the woman was dismissive. And they had NO REPORT. Why would I go through a system that enables, ridicules, and disempowers victims? I am still healing and getting back on my feet, and because of this treatment from the very department that is suppose to have my back, I have decided to put it to bed. For now, my focus is on speaking up and helping other survivors.

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    Grounding activity

    Find a comfortable place to sit. Gently close your eyes and take a couple of deep breaths - in through your nose (count to 3), out through your mouth (count of 3). Now open your eyes and look around you. Name the following out loud:

    5 – things you can see (you can look within the room and out of the window)

    4 – things you can feel (what is in front of you that you can touch?)

    3 – things you can hear

    2 – things you can smell

    1 – thing you like about yourself.

    Take a deep breath to end.

    From where you are sitting, look around for things that have a texture or are nice or interesting to look at.

    Hold an object in your hand and bring your full focus to it. Look at where shadows fall on parts of it or maybe where there are shapes that form within the object. Feel how heavy or light it is in your hand and what the surface texture feels like under your fingers (This can also be done with a pet if you have one).

    Take a deep breath to end.

    Ask yourself the following questions and answer them out loud:

    1. Where am I?

    2. What day of the week is today?

    3. What is today’s date?

    4. What is the current month?

    5. What is the current year?

    6. How old am I?

    7. What season is it?

    Take a deep breath to end.

    Put your right hand palm down on your left shoulder. Put your left hand palm down on your right shoulder. Choose a sentence that will strengthen you. For example: “I am powerful.” Say the sentence out loud first and pat your right hand on your left shoulder, then your left hand on your right shoulder.

    Alternate the patting. Do ten pats altogether, five on each side, each time repeating your sentences aloud.

    Take a deep breath to end.

    Cross your arms in front of you and draw them towards your chest. With your right hand, hold your left upper arm. With your left hand, hold your right upper arm. Squeeze gently, and pull your arms inwards. Hold the squeeze for a little while, finding the right amount of squeeze for you in this moment. Hold the tension and release. Then squeeze for a little while again and release. Stay like that for a moment.

    Take a deep breath to end.